


'til finis comes, with you

by lionsenpai



Category: Final Fantasy Type-0
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, M/M, Sad Spy: the fic, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-04-21 14:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4831934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionsenpai/pseuds/lionsenpai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years in deep cover at Akademia, Emina's position should be all but assured. But with the Milites-Concordian dual front on the horizon, Sorcery sends one of its deadliest weapons to investigate her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zerrat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zerrat/gifts).



> I've been sitting on this piece for a while now, and I guess it's finally time to start posting chapters. This was a birthday present to Zerrat, who is exactly Ancient years old this year, and capitalizes on the fact that she loves the Sad Spy. 
> 
> In the interest of not having SUPER long chapters, I've split up the chapters a bit more than what they were originally, so less to trudge through. Enjoy.

The view from Akademia's fore-facing balcony extends for a mile and encompasses the main courtyard, the paths between the arena, the chocobo farm, and rural Rubrum. It offers the highest vantage in the building save the roof itself, and is innocuous enough, popular with the cadets and commanding officers alike. For Emina, coming here is nearly a routine—or close enough to one as she's willing to risk—her back pressed against sun-warmed stone, eyes flickering from her novel every so often to trace the dozens of quick escapes from the balcony to the cobblestones below, a suggestion of security if the worst should happen.

Soldiers and military officials come and go, their coattails snapping as Sorcery engineers follow in their wake, and Emina's learned to stop holding her breath as they pass, their gaze rarely lingering. She's a decoration, a piece to be placed on a mantle, perfectly in order and needing no further inspection, and they overlook her day and again until she stops feeling like she might choke when she hears the scuff of polished boots on tile.

Cadets tread lighter, especially those who have tasted battle. Those she gives only cursory glances, ensuring they are just students, not some task force come to take her unawares, but they too pass, sometimes with a smile or a wave in her direction.

In the early afternoon sun, there's nothing but a whisper of movement, a breeze upon the stone, but she still looks up in time for a long shadow to slant across her.

“Oh,” she says, squinting against the light until she recognizes the cobalt hue of that hair, the slivers of sun reflected upon an ebony grate. Her grasp on the book slackens, and she smooths the tension from her expression with a smile. “Your meeting’s finished?”

Kurasame nods, extending a hand which she takes happily, the marks in her novel’s binding from her nails faint and unseeable. She still tucks it beneath her arm anyway, holding it close to her side.

“It might have gone longer if not for our plans.” Kurasame’s voice comes out muffled, edged with a metallic sound, but Emina is long accustomed to it, picking out his words even in a crowd. He nods for them to return to the lobby within, and she follows, frowning.

“You walked out on them?”

Kurasame shrugs, which is about what she expects and not at all what she wants. “I told them I had an important prior arrangement.”

Emina nudges his arm with her shoulder. Abandoning some of the most influential people in Rubrum for _lunch_? Crystals, but there are some moments when she envies his bravery even if every other second she prays he’ll recognize his foolishness before it kills him.

The Council isn’t a forgiving body, especially without the Chancellor to oversee their individual ambitions. Although he’s never confirmed what exactly certain members of the Council call him for once a week, it doesn’t take much to connect the dots: his sudden instatement as commanding officer of the Arch-Sorceress’s children, the old feuds which draw battle lines even within the eight chair group… Intel on Doctor Arecia’s newest project would be invaluable to those who might want to turn it against her, and with the speculation surrounding Class Zero, she can’t see Kurasame’s appointment as anything other than a calculated move.

Yet even if he’s working to their advantage, even if he’s feeding them whatever information they want, the Council and its members take poorly to snubs. Their politicking keeps them at each other’s throats, but it wouldn’t be the first time their internal struggles were set aside long enough to shed innocent blood.

Kurasame should know that best of all, she thinks, looking at his half-concealed face, but the topic withers to ashes on her tongue. She knows better too, settling for, “You really don’t want to get on their bad side, Kurasame.”

He doesn’t balk, assuring her, “They still have use of me, Emina.”

The library and cafeteria are easily reached by use of the main portal, but Kurasame doesn’t blink when they start towards the stairs instead, long accustomed to Emina’s peculiarities. She had to be the only one in Akademia to take the stairs, but then regular people don’t need to worry about the scanners on the portals recognizing them as enemy and flaying them between the floors of the school.

“I hope so,” she sighs, interlocking their arms and leaning against his shoulder. Inside the stairwell, she ventures, “I feel bad for those kids.”

It’s as close to talking about his dealings with the Council as she’s ever tread, and for a moment, Emina almost thinks he won’t respond. After a long moment, he says, “The Council’s suspicion of them is impressive, even for them.”

Emina glances up at him, surprised. “They don’t deserve to be caught up in the Council’s feud.”

“No one does,” Kurasame agrees just loud enough to be heard over their descending footsteps. “But they’re resilient. And they stand together. The Council will have no choice but to recognize their deeds after the Militesi-Concordian dual front.”

Emina isn’t sure how she feels about using cadets as the main force on the Concordian offensive line, even cadets who single handedly pushed back Milites in Operation Akademia Liberation. Biological weapons they’ve been called, but the way Kurasame’s voice goes soft, his eyes thoughtful when he talks about them makes her wonder. They’re still barely adults even if their mantle is feared across every border.

Still, thinking on the Arch-Sorceress’ children makes her stomach churn with unease, fingers of fear creeping up her spine to rest over her brand, warm upon her shoulder. The Red Demons… Even her sympathy has its limits, self-preservation making her keep a wide berth.

Leaving the emptiness of the stairwell behind once they’ve reached the right floor means their discussion is probably at an end, and not wanting to push, Emina asks, “The Council isn’t thinking about sending you out with Class Zero, are they?”

Kurasame shakes his head. “I’ll be overseeing their movements on the Concordian front from here.”

“Good. I can’t believe they even considered it.” She can believe, really, but it’s the right thing to say here.

“Speaking of,” Kurasame adds. “One of my students has asked to meet you before the mission.”

She jerks her head up, surprise touching her voice. “What?”

One of Class Zero? Asking for her? Her mind routes the connections from them to Sorcery, from Sorcery to Doctor Arecia and higher still.

“They asked for me?”

He nods. “By name. I believe she wants a lesson.”

She laughs, a touch nervous, trying to loosen the lump in her throat. “You must have been gossiping again, Kurasame.”

“You know I don’t gossip. Your reputation precedes you, Emina.”

The lump drops into her stomach, and her brand itches, just shy of hot. She recalls the hunts Sorcery conducted for spies, worrying her lip between her teeth. She’d been sixteen then, only three years situated within Akademia, but the search had been extensive, and Emina had spent every night thinking it her last, waiting for the stomp of boots outside her room, the hail of gunfire and fizzle of magic.

Questions race through her mind, hows and whys repeating like some broken record, skipping back to the beginning before she can arrive at a feasible answer.

“Emina?”

She laughs, realizing they’ve lapsed into unusual silence, and gives him a reassuring smile, perfect in every way.

“Sorry,” she says, leaning her head against his shoulder again so he can’t see her expression. “Just can’t believe anyone would ask for me when they have the Ice Reaper for a commanding officer.”

“She’s adept with ice.” His brows dip at the use of that moniker. “I doubt I’d have anything to teach her. If you’re willing, we could set up a time for you to meet her.”

It should be as simple as that: just a lesson for someone who wants to learn, but even if she’s been asked for training and guidance before, those cadets weren’t the children of the Arch-Sorceress.

But magic is magic, she tells herself. Even Class Zero has to learn somewhere. Yet the thought nags at her: why would someone who could have anyone as their tutor want her?

“If I have time,” she says finally, not wanting to give a true answer.

It falls between them, silence filling the space where a real response ought to be, but Kurasame merely nods, not pushing even though she knows it must sound strange. She complains daily that she doesn’t have a new class (and frets in secret that there might be some meaning behind it), and he knows it well.

Still, he doesn’t comment, leading them into the library to find Kazusa’s office, hidden among the shelves. The door opens with a mechanical hiss, and Emina gives a weak wave to the cadets who eye them from over the tops of books. She feels their gazes keenly, and is too happy to step within the laboratory out of sight, finding Kazusa at his computer with a stack of papers to his left and a cool cup of coffee to his right.

Numbers cross his screen at a pace faster than even Emina can understand, but he doesn’t look away, hardly even blinks. At least until Kurasame clears his throat and says, “Kazusa.”

As if broken from a trance, he swings around in his chair, eyes red from sleeplessness or too long crunching numbers or both. Even so, he glances back to his computer as if he’s considering putting them off for a moment—or an hour—longer, but eventually he looks up again, finally decided.

“I didn’t expect you so soon,” he says, closing his laptop with a small click.

“We’re right on time,” Kurasame says, not taking his eyes off Kazusa. “You’re not ready?”

“On the contrary.” He reaches for his papers and tucks them under his arm, his joints cracking as he rises. “Let’s go.”

Emina’s barely there, her thoughts swirling despite the way she tries to divert the flow into something tangible, so when Kazusa approaches and tips the binding of her novel towards him, she flinches away.

“ _Mistress of Desire_?” He doesn’t notice her startle or either he just doesn’t mention, his tone humorless, judgement heavy. “How do you read this tripe?”

She blinks, but the quirk at the edge of Kazusa’s lips forces her to rally, to push aside Class Zero just long enough to retaliate, her own mouth curling in a tight smile. _Hmph_ ing and tucking it back under her arm, she declares, “It’s _good_. And anyway, what are _you_ reading?”

He smiles thinly. “Results.”

“From willing subjects, I presume,” Kurasame says.

“Of course. To do otherwise would be a violation of Akademia policy.”

The same way she knows he's not truly mocking her when he mentions her tastes in literature, she understands that this means: _of course not, that would take too much time_. Even if the thought of losing one of the two people she calls friends didn’t make her sick, reporting him is getting too close to the disciplinary committee, so she doesn't comment.

Still, it's hard not to remember the time he drugged her for samples of her blood and hair. She awoke in a panic, sure she was back Milites, the drug fogging her vision at the edges. Disoriented, she mistook him for one of the trainers there, fear leaping into her throat with the taste of bile, and it was only been the drug inhibiting her which stopped her from burning him alive in a bid to escape. He noticed her flailing and assured her she'd be fine soon, but if he saw her reaching desperately for her wand, he didn’t mentioned.

Afterwards, she skipped class for two days, sure he saw her brand. To draw blood he would have needed to pull her jacket off, and the shirt below only half concealed her shoulder. Fearing the worst, she remembered what the trainers in Milites said about the chance of being compromised: _sever all loose ends_.

That was when she first considered it, first imagined that without the men of the facility there to remind her of her mission, she might simply forget it.

Kazusa never mentioned anything to her, and she stopped gripping her wand every time they saw each other, praying he overlooked the brand in favor of the mysteries to be uncovered in her blood. Akademia never came for her, never demanded she strip to the waist, and so she let herself believe there was nothing to fear of him—but she never forgot waking up in his room.

As long as it's not her ending up in his office, she won't raise a finger, and she almost thinks some part of him knows it.

“My students?” Kurasame asks.

Kazusa has the gall to frown at the question, annoyed. “I have stayed away, as promised.”

From the look they exchange, Emina gets the feeling the question isn’t unprompted. Her mouth twists into a frown—is she the only one with any sense between the three of them?

“They belong to Sorcery, you know.” Kurasame might not press, but Emina doesn’t mind the flare of true irritation turned on her in response.

“I am aware.”  Kazusa adjusts his papers and looks down at his watch. “My next reaction is done in an hour.”

The dismissal chafes, especially when there’s nothing to protect Kazusa if he runs afoul of Class Zero and the powers which govern it. Kurasame might have his position, the Council’s tenuous approval, but Kazusa exists in Akademia only as an outlier, someone to be forgotten about until he emerges from the walls. That kind of anonymity is dangerous.

But Kurasame must sense the words brewing on Emina’s tongue because he touches her hand. “Perhaps we should get going then.”

Kazusa nods, making for the door, and Emina has no choice but to follow along, her arm slipping from Kurasame’s as the shelves mend together behind them with a click. Her gut churns, thoughts turning back on Class Zero, and faintly, she can feel the pulse of her brand, an ache that suffuses through her shoulder and up into her neck. She touches it briefly, chancing only a moment to run her fingers over her jacket and brush the skin the below.

Lunch will settle her, she tells herself, following the shapes of Kurasame and Kazusa through the library and out into the hallways. She sticks close, watching the corners, the alcoves full of cadets, but her thoughts return to Class Zero as her friends talk idly of Kazusa’s newest project.

A lesson. If things go well, not a drop of blood would be spilled. She wonders: would a member of Class Zero remember her lesson if an order to execute the spy fell into their lap? Would they remember how much she belonged, how much efficient she was with her wand? Would they hesitate?

Her throat still constricts at the thought of getting tangled up with Class Zero, with becoming more visible to those who might find the cracks in her facade, but one session couldn’t— _shouldn’t_ leave her so exposed.

She swallows, catching Kurasame by the elbow.

“Before you two get too distracted with each each other,” she starts, managing a small smile. “That student of yours—I suppose I could manage a quick lesson.”

His surprise passes quickly, and he nods. “I’ll introduce you. I’m sure she’d be grateful.”

“I’ll try not to make you look too bad,” she promises.

Kazusa glances up from his papers, humor ghosting across his expression; Kurasame lets out a clipped, wheezing cough she recognizes as a laugh; and Emina slides between them, taking them both by the arms. They exchange looks over her head, but neither protest as they are led to the lunchroom, conversation blooming between the three of them as Emina drowns out her concerns with the help of their presence—for now, at least.

*

It isn’t often the three of them can gather like this, all of their schedules changing at the drop of a hat, and so Emina makes sure to savor it, her laugh light and airy and real in the noisy cafeteria.

But it doesn’t last forever, and when it’s finally time, Kurasame lifts his mask to his face and lets Kazusa strap it back into place, his touch lingering for a brief moment after it’s done. Her back to the wall, Emina glances at the clock on the far wall, right above the two armed guards who she recognizes as Jeralt and Arlene, a pair from the security detail who regularly get assigned to the lunchroom.

“That time already?” she asks, tidying up her tray.

Across from her, Kazusa fidgets like he’s ready to leave, but his eyes keep wandering to Kurasame, expression pensive. “I need to be going,” he says, gaze cutting to Emina for a moment before catching cobalt eyes. “Are you busy?”

Their hands brush upon the table, warm affection for all that propensity usually bars them to the quiet of more private quarters. Emina pretends not to notice—the last thing she wants to do is have them think they’ve overstepped—but Kurasame still pulls away after a moment, looking her way.

“I should introduce Emina to my student,” he says. “Afterwards.”

Kazusa frowns but doesn’t remark, and Emina assures him, “It will be quick.”

Or at least she hopes it will be.

They all rise together, feeding their trays onto a conveyor belt to be taken away, and as they move towards the exit, Emina catches the gazes of Jeralt and Arlene with a wave. They return it in kind, and Emina makes a note to catch up with them soon.

It never hurts to be friendly with some of the lower levels of security.

“My reaction is done,” Kazusa offers as they come upon the main lobby, his eyes darting to the main portal.

He doesn’t wait for a response, but he does glance up at Kurasame, the intent clear behind his glasses. At her shoulder, Kurasame dips his head, a promise to be quick, and the two of them turn and slip into a hallway of classrooms. Emina can see the double doors to Class Zero’s lecture hall from here, and her pulse picks up.

To steady herself, she asks, “What are they like?”

Kurasame’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the only hint of a smile that remains with his mask in place. “Her name is Seven. She’s a marvelous student.”

Emina chuckles though she can’t help the nervous flutter in her stomach, the way her mind returns to the stories whispered about Class Zero, how they’re more beast than human. She can taste regret on her tongue, but she swallows it down, persisting even though there’s a cold sweat prickling between her shoulder blades. “Fast learner?”

They stop at the doors, and Kurasame pauses to say, “You might learn something.”

The handle clicks at his touch, giving easily as the door swings, light chatter just on the other side. Kurasame enters first, and Emina follows him, her head held high, a faint smile upon her lips, ice creeping into her chest.

It reminds her of her own classes. The room is set up exactly the same, and the cadets—Class Zero—all twist their heads at the entrance, eyes dulling at the sight of Kurasame and then sparking when they notice Emina to his left. She reminds herself to breathe and look pleasant; even if they belong to Sorcery, even if they inspire horror on the battlefields and awe in the halls of Akademia, they are cadets first, just on the cusp of adulthood.

There’s no sign of recognition from them—at least until Emina catches sight of a pair caught deep in discussion upon the stage, their expressions freezing at the sight of her.

“Seven,” Kurasame calls, and one of them—white hair, solid shoulders, probably used to swinging her weapon—breaks eye contact long enough to glance his way. “A moment.”

Emina forgets to breathe as she and the other one—long, dark hair, slight frame with just the right amount of lean muscle beneath her skin to make her dangerous even up close—exchange looks and then start toward her together. They move with the grace of animals used to stalking their prey, each footstep like a phantom’s. Kurasame raises a brow when they stand before him, eyeing the second one as though the same questions are running through his head: _why is she here, what does she want?_

“Queen?” His voice bleeds enough surprise to set the mantra in Emina’s mind to double-time, her palms growing clammy.

“This is her?” Queen asks. “Emina Hanaharu?”

“Ms.Hanaharu,” Seven interrupts, shooting her a look that’s just shy of reprimanding.

For all the respect in her tone, Seven’s gaze still cuts, a blade pressed in by the weight of her class’ attention. It’s an examination, her eyes lingering on Emina’s hands, her wand, the way she stands with one foot slightly back. She’s searching for weakness, finding it in the cracks in her facade.

And she isn’t the only one, Emina thinks, glancing to Queen, to the other dozen pairs of eyes all doing the same.

She knows she ought to say something, ought to have something witty prepared, but her tongue has turned to lead in her mouth at the thought of what they could do to her. Her nails dig into her palms hard enough to hurt, but still nothing comes.

“I’m Seven.” She frowns like she can smell her fear, eyes slits, feline and predatory and watching Emina’s every move. “I was hoping for a lesson.”

Emina remembers when she called them kids, when she implied they might not survive the Council’s politicking. How foolish a notion, born of the belief that even a scrap of weakness existed in them, that they weren’t just vicious fangs and hooked claws. The Council would not survive _them_.

Kurasame’s elbow brushes against her side, and she jolts, startling like a cornered animal. Emina lets out a breath that might have been a cry before she strangled it in her throat, and covers it with quiet laughter.

“You _must_ have been gossiping, Kurasame.” The hoarseness of her voice takes even her by surprise.

He shakes his head, but instead of saying what she already knows, he asks, “Is there something you need, Queen?”

Queen shakes her head, but her violet eyes don’t stray from Emina’s hands. Can she see the crescents Emina is digging in her own flesh, the nervous fidgets? Worse, can she guess the cause behind it? The secret that fills Emina’s nights with unrelenting questions? Even behind her spectacles, the interest is clear to see, an instinctive urge to sink her teeth in at the scent of blood.

Instead, she asks, her tone mild, “Cleo Masters?”

A moment of silence descends over the four of them until Emina blinks, understanding rushing to her. She looks down at her book and laughs again, a truer sound, lines of nervousness clear. Turning it over to show the cover, she says, “I’m not caught up yet, but I’m a big fan of her work.”

“She’s good,” Queen agrees, her smile not quite kind. “You’ll enjoy the rest of the series.”

“I hope so. Are you…?”

Her question flounders as Queen turns and descends the stairs toward the front of the room, steps even and light. For a moment they all can do nothing but watch her go, but after a moment, Kurasame follows her down, his expression unhappy, offering only, “Excuse me.”

A dozen pairs of eyes track his pursuit, watch as he catches Queen by the arm and begins to speak to her in a low voice, but her nods are short, clipped, cordial. She hears him, but his words are lost to indifference, her agreement with whatever he’s saying superficial at best. It pulls the focus from Emina, but her thoughts are drowned in a sea of uncertainty. Where is the motive? What was that smile?

The only thing that pulls her from her silence is the realization that Seven’s scrutiny has returned, her mouth set unhappily.

“Sorry about that,” she offers.

Emina finds it in herself to shrug, trying to brush it off, trying not to let it fester in the back of her mind.

“Are you busy now?”

“Now?” Her eyes flicker to Kurasame. “Eager, aren’t you? Don’t you have class soon?”

Seven shrugs, but her gaze hasn’t lost its edge. “Later then.”

It feels more like an order than a request, and sickly, Emina nods, saying, “At the arena. I’ll meet you there.”

A word of thanks chases Emina out of the classroom, but she’s already waved and pulled the door closed behind her before she can think to offer anything more. It’s a retreat, an escape, and out in the hallway, she nearly trips over herself taking long strides away from Class Zero. It takes everything in her to walk, her body tense, senses pricked for the click of the door behind her, predators on the hunt.

She makes it to the end of the hall and bumps into a flock of students headed for another class, apologizing without stopping, not hearing herself or them. She makes it to the main lobby and finds the stairwell, her heart hammering away in her chest the whole time, and once she’s inside, she can only make it three flights before stopping and catching herself against the railing, breathing hard.

The hairs along the back of her neck stand at attention even now, her runaway imagination putting Class Zero in the role of her executioners. They would ruin her. They would circle until they find the rawest parts of her, tearing into them until all that’s left is her brand, what it represents. It will be the only scrap of flesh left, a justification for the bloody mess they leave of her.

How can Kurasame teach them? How can he call himself their commanding officer when they exude the kind of presence that makes shadows grow darker, shift with horrors. It’s no wonder they’re called demons on the battlefield; she’s left shaking from nothing more than a brief exchange.

An exchange… But Crystals, it felt like a test, like Seven and Queen were sizing her up, their minds already set.

Her brand pulses, and she grasps her shoulder, fingers digging in. Fear clutches her heart, digging its nails in until her chest feels tight and her body trembles.

Twelve years of cover, and _now_ there's interest? The Militesi conflict was bound to garner attention, but rumors stopped circulating ages ago about spies, their last witchhunt decidedly fruitful, unquestionably a success. The condemned burned, and a great celebratory feast was held in the cafeteria. Though Emina hadn’t been able to stomach the food, she’d smiled and laughed along with the rest of Akademia, cementing her place.

Did her cover fall to pieces while she pretended Rubrum would forget about spies? Or was there activity, a cause for suspicion? What could have inspired Queen’s smile, Seven’s interest?

She squeezes her wrist hard enough to hurt, staring but not seeing. If they suspect… If anyone suspects, would she know before it’s too late? Before a squad clad in crimson came to sentence her, judge, jury, and executioners? She’s charmed her way through every prodding question about her family, her history, but if they came for her with their suspicions bared, it wouldn’t just be to talk.

Emina takes a shallow breath, pushing away from the railing and running her fingers through her hair instead, trying to ignore the steady warmth of her brand, the reminder that it lingers right under her clothes, a death sentence she can’t defend.

But—but she’s been careful. She’s been oh so careful, meticulously building her reputation, her acclaim around Akademia. People see her face and they know to smile, that she’ll return each one with warmth. Even new cadets approach her easily, encouraged by her facade.

Class Zero should be the same. Class Zero _has_ to be the same.

She’s just a commanding officer without a class and plenty of free time, and this is just a magic lesson for a cadet in need. This has played out hundreds of times before, and it will be no different even if the student is one of the Arch-Sorceress’ pets, her collar flashing a deep crimson around their necks.

Yet Seven didn’t wear a mantle, she realizes, and somehow, she laughs, praying she isn’t half the monster she appears.

"We'll start with fire," she says to no one in particular, struggling to force her tone to come light and airy as she starts up the steps again. "A short lesson on the basics."

 _It will pass without a hitch_ , she promises herself, yet her brand burns hotter, a constant reminder. _Just one lesson_.

Yet even so, _what if_ slinks through her thoughts, hounding her until her stomach roils with illness. She fixates on the way Seven looked at her, the way Queen left so suddenly, the sturdy bodies that looked capable of rending her limb from limb. She hums a tune, trying for serene, but truly the only thing she knows is that she was foolish to agree to this, to be enticed in by Kurasame’s assurances.

A part of wonders though, if they truly suspect her, would it have been enough just to decline?

The faculty rooms are on the second highest floor, predominated only by the Department of Sorcery, and when Emina reaches her door, it gives with a click at the flash of her card. She stops at the doorway, flicking on the light and waiting for the shuffle of an assault team within, but the inside is all in order, books stacked neatly on shelves, clothes folded and put away as soon as they're laundered.

There’s not a thing out of place, her compulsive cleanliness undisturbed, and Emina steps inside, closing the door behind her.

Emina drops her book on the bed and reaches for her wand at her hip, finding some small comfort in its grip. “A lesson,” she says. “Don’t overthink it. It’s just a lesson. They’re just _kids_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a b-day gift for Zerrat. Enjoy dude!

Regardless of how Emina tells herself over and over not to fret, she still spends the long space between lunch and the end of classes as a practice in futility. She tries to read, tries to check on rosters, tries to expunge the tension from her body with stretches, but there’s nothing she can do to keep her mind off of the upcoming lesson.

Eventually she gives up, pacing and worrying, and by the time she needs to begin getting ready, there are slivers of relief mixed among the snarls of dread, an end finally in sight.

Changing crosses her mind, but aside from her issued uniforms, the only thing suitable for an informal session would be her riding attire. For Chocobos, it wouldn't be a problem, but if the look in Seven's eye is anything to go by, she figures she'll be sweating before they're done. Chancing it with a white top seems foolish, and she knows all it would do is leave her twisting to look over her shoulder, trying to ensure the fabric hadn't become translucent.

Instead, Emina pulls at her hair, tightening the ponytail and sweeping her bangs back into the tie. It isn't much, but she doesn't want any blind spots.

She hovers as long as she dares and then sets off, not wanting to seem reluctant.

Seven is already there when she arrives, her uniform stripped away, replaced instead by red shorts and a dark tank. Like this, the contours of her arms are more than a mere suggestion, her shoulders thick with muscle. From the slant of her frown to the toes of her worn, dusty boots, Seven looks every bit as dangerous as the whispers claim.

If nothing else, her time alone has made her remember how to speak, how to act. She crosses the sandy pit of the arena and waves even if Seven eyes her as she approaches. "I can't believe there isn't anyone else here. The weather's perfect!"

"There were a couple cadets, but they were just finishing up," Seven says, running her hand through her bangs. "I thought you would change."

Laughter is the perfect deflection for prodding statements—and Emina is almost sure that was prodding. "This is what I'd wear into an actual fight, assuming I ever get another class. It's been months now!"

If she has reservations on that, Seven doesn't say. Emina almost wishes she would. Dismissing suspicion is how she survived for over a decade here, but she can't offer an explanation without prompting. And all those searching looks, her sudden interest... It tugs at Emina's stomach, filling her with anxiety all over again. Like this in the arena, she's wide open to be taken in an ambush.

Trying not to envision a squadron stepping out onto the sand with them, Emina says, "I'm not sure I would have much to show to a member of the famous Class Zero. You kids are something else."

Seven doesn't blush at the flattery, but nor does she turn from it. She takes it in stride; not a surprise, really. She must have heard that line a thousand times over already—even before the activation of Class Zero in the liberation campaign.

Unswayed by her compliment, Seven says, "I’ve heard you specialize in magic. Our commander is adept with ice, but I don't have anything to learn with the other arts."

To say Kurasame is adept at ice magic is stepping into a blizzard naked and commenting only on a chill, and again, Emina feels herself begin to sweat at the notion of just how powerful the cadet standing before her is.

"Kurasame, huh? Did he recommend me?" The shrug she gets is non-committal at best, the frown a clear no, which begs the questions of _how_ and _why_ all over again. She remembers Queen, how she’d known her too, and doubt lingers like smoke in her throat as she says, "I never had his gift for ice, but he never had my talent for multiplicity. I could make you more adaptable in battle, but I doubt I'll have anything to teach you in your own field."

“That’s fine.” Seven inclines her head toward the center of the pit. "Are you ready?"

Emina’s hope to dispel her worries withers, the fear all that’s left thrumming through her blood.

"Always." Emina smiles anyway, following her lead. "I thought we might start with what you know and then try to incorporate other arts into your style."

They agree to a round with the victory being given on the yield; no weapons, no buffs, no heals. As Emina tucks her wand away, she squares up with Seven, the space between them easily snatched in a single lunge. Her pulse pounds in her ears, eyes flicking to the arena's walls.

Swallowing, she says, "And... Go!"

Seven's first move is to take the distance, closing in, but Emina retreats, summoning flames in her wake. They twist and hiss through the air, cutting off her pursuit and turning clumps of sand into globs of glass. Seven responds with an explosion of ice at Emina's back, intending to trap her. Twisting around it plays her right into Seven's hands, but before she can summon another blast of ice, sparks dance from Emina's fingers.

Lightning drives her away if only for a moment, but the ease with which Seven flows from attacking to evading sets Emina on the defensive. It's a constant pacing and repacing, her body flitting into Emina's space until she's never not on the retreat, desperate to keep Seven at bay.

Her lips thin, but she can't catch her breath, and still Seven comes, indomitable. Ice blooms in razor-sharp snarls all around her, and Emina has to wreath her hand in flame to turn a spear of it into meltwater before she careens into it, spinning out of the way as Seven raises another.

 _Entrapment_ , Emina thinks, slipping from a ring of ice before it can close around her. Nausea churns her guts, and she looks again to the walls, waiting to see soldiers, reinforcements, _someone_. Seven catches her while she's looking, the air around her feet and ankles freezing, creeping up her boots until they threaten her knees. Heat blooms at her hiss, and Seven's spell fractures before she can wrap her hands around Emina's wrists—or her throat.

In her mind's eye, shadows crawl from the hidden passageways, stepping out onto the sand with their guns trained on her, but with Seven gaining on her, Emina's forced to focus, to cut her world at the edges, leaving room only for the blur of black and red.

The openings in her style are small, nearly imperceptible, appearing and closing before there's a chance to take advantage of them, but Emina notes every one, waiting for her wrist to twitch, for the moment before a spell where her eyes fall on her target. It becomes easier to dance away, predicting where the ice will burst from and routing around it, but if anything, that only encourages Seven, makes her press more. She chases Emina across the arena until there's a trail of ice and glass behind them, the air full of static.

Emina expected a challenge, but this feels more like an actual fight. She sets her jaw and pools more magic into her palms, desperate for a chance to work a real spell.

Another lightning spell fizzles in her hands, the spray enough to disrupt Seven's casting, and in that moment, Emina cuts behind a jagged sprout of ice. There's barely a second to be gained from it, but it's all she needs. She calls blistering heat to surround her, white-hot flames licking at her feet. Sweat pours from her forehead, soaks her uniform, but the pause is all she needs to summon a plume of flames. They eat through the ice before her, and Seven's expression opens in surprise as they snarl and hiss, rushing toward her.

Seven rolls as the serpent of flames swallows another of her spells with a vicious pop, steam exploding outwards, but Emina only directs it on, channeling more into the spell, straining to contain and grow it at once. It dogs Seven, devouring her counter-spells without stopping. Broiling heat envelops the arena, ash sticking in Emina's throat, but Seven doesn't slow, raising walls at her back to slow the flames.

She flicks her wrist, but the ice doesn't come, and Emina pulls her spell a split second before Seven yells, "Yield!"

The magic falls apart, shape lost as the fire withers and collapses in on itself, and when there's none left, Emina bends, wiping her brow and trembling, her brand aching. Across the field, Seven takes a knee, breathing hard.

Around them, the stands are still and empty, and hope flickers in Emina's burning chest.

"You're quite talented!" Emina calls after a moment, her voice rasping in the lingering heat. She starts toward Seven, encouraged by the absence of an execution squad. "You almost had me!"

Looking up from beneath her bangs, Seven sucks in a deep breath and then rises smoothly, her cheeks flushed with exhaustion. Sweat mats her hair to skin, but aside from the layer of sand stuck to the outsides of her arms, her knees, and her calves, she's hale and whole, expression not walled for the first time since they met.

Wiping some of the sediment from her arms, she takes deep, measured breaths and says, "You seemed distracted."

"I thought you Class Zero kids knew how to pace yourselves." Her lips quirk with humor she doesn't feel, but there's not a hint of mockery in her tone, a simple distraction to throw her off. "Warn me next time you want to throw every spell you've got at me all at once."

It works—perhaps a little too well. Seven's brow furrows, and she straightens just a bit even despite the harmless nature of Emina's words. "I wanted to end things quickly. A long fight would have favored you."

She tries again, doing her best to ignore the prickle of apprehension at Seven’s defensive look. "Because you think I've got more magic? Very clever."

That garners a better response, the tension fading from Seven's toned shoulders once she realizes she isn’t being admonished. She glances away, saying, "Magic is your primary weapon. You’re a Class Fifth graduate, aren’t you?"

Emina nods in response, watching the hard edges smooth from Seven’s visage, her mouth slant in uncertainty, her gaze grazing where before it cut. If someone asked her to compare the Seven she met earlier and the one standing before her now, she wouldn’t know where to start. Before, she was all raised hackles, bristled and ready for a fight, but now she sits pensive, patient.

The observation eases her lingering concerns, not forgotten but pushed aside. Besides, if this was a ploy to take her unprepared, the strike would have come before, Seven abandoning their rules and calling forth her weapon, the edge cutting through Emina's wand to find the soft flesh of her throat. It would have been an execution no one would have mourned, her knowing tag burned for treason, yet here she stands, life pounding through her veins instead of spilling onto the sand.

For once, Seven presses her lips like she isn't sure what to say next, and Emina takes advantage of her gaining momentum, her rising confidence, offering playfully, "You're not planning to back out, are you? I promise I'll go easier on you while I'm teaching."

There's a moment where Seven's expression goes blank, but it passes when her lips quirk, eyes averting. "No, no. Let's continue, Ms.Hanaharu."

“Just Emina is fine,” she says. Her brand only echoes with heat, barely noticeable. “No need for all that formality.”

 _It's just a lesson_ , Emina thinks as she moves closer, and for the first time, it feels like it might actually be the truth. _Just a lesson_.

Fire is the simplest form, and Kurasame was right: Seven is a fast learner. As a master with ice, giving her magic shape is nothing more than imagining its form for Seven. Flames bloom from her fingertips at Emina's urging, quickly growing larger, their life not bound to her thought. It takes a moment to wrest control, but it comes after a moment of surprise, an inferno flaring to life before her before she can snuff it out. A novice might have come away with burnt fingers, the skin threatening to blister, but Seven has already proven she's far from a novice, and her hands are smooth and unblemished when the fire dies.

From there, it's only a matter of direction and control: feed the spell enough to consume the enemy without loosing it on those she would call allies. Emina cautions range, explaining that the farther the spell wanders, the harder it is to reign in, control fraying at the edges as it expands out from the caster's hands.

"You must be an exceptional mage," Seven says, sweat beading along her neck, the cadet finally visible beneath the weapon. “And a good tutor.”

Unbidden, Emina feels a flush of true pleasure rise in her throat, and she isn’t insincere when she responds, “I live to teach. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

In the end, Seven settles with a few close-range spells meant to delay or redirect, the fire dancing at her fingertips like she's been working with it all her life, and they debate briefly moving on to lightning. The sun is hot on Emina's shoulders even through her uniform, her throat parched, and Seven looks much the same, the bridge of her nose and cheeks tinged red from exposure.

It's Seven who finally calls it, ending their session and beginning to roll her shoulders, working out the kinks. Emina watches, even considers asking if Seven wants another lesson. The moments when she can guide others are the moments she comes closest to forgetting she doesn’t belong, a snake hidden among the bushes.

 _I’ll get a class soon_ , she decides, looking away and beginning to stretch some herself, her shoulder a ball of tension and heat. There are aches all over her body from where she moved too quickly or collided too hard, and her magic reserves are halfway gone. _Of normal cadets._

"I’ve been meaning to ask,” Seven says once she’s finished, shaking out her limbs. They begin away from the arena, following the path toward the courtyard. “You’re not a front-line soldier, are you?”

She raises a brow. “Oh? What gave it away?”

Seven shrugs. “You don’t look like you’re used to getting this close.”

Emina shakes her head. "Rear-guard. I work best at a distance, but I can make exceptions for those who want to learn."

The courtyard is brimming with after-class activity, groups of students lingering by the fountain or passing through. Seven barely seems to take notice, her eyes glued to Emina, her expression not quite right, but before Emina can grow nervous beneath the scrutiny, Seven says, “Thank you—for the lesson. I learned a lot."

There's nothing more to it, sincerity clear in her tone, her hands, open and loose at her sides. Emina exhales, her smile coming a second late. "Any time."

Both of them are headed for the main lobby, and Emina keeps the silence from growing long and awkward by asking after Seven’s plans for the night. She’s headed for dinner after clearing up some business with a fellow classmate, and she even asks if Emina would like to join her, but as much as Seven doesn’t appear to be half the beast Emina thought, she still doesn’t relish the idea of doing this sort of thing again—especially if there’s a chance of meeting the rest of her classmates.

As cordial and impressive as Seven has turned out to be, Emina isn’t delusional enough to think her toothless. Avoidance would do her well.

“I’m a bit busy myself,” she says, the lie smooth on her tongue.

It’s accepted with a nod, but her expression waxes thoughtful, and just past the main doors, Seven hesitates. “I’m sorry about earlier. You weren’t what I expected.”

“Earlier?” Her mind flickers to the classroom. “What do you—”

Fire ignites Emina’s flesh, and she chokes on her tongue, the taste of blood in her mouth. She twists away, thinking she’s been burned, but the pain persists, hot and jagged and pressed right to her skin, and she stumbles forward, careening into Seven.

Seven’s voice swims through her head, but Emina can’t make sense of it, a raw cry tearing itself from her throat as she crumples to the ground, her knees impacting hard. She grasps at her shoulder before she can think what she’s doing, fingers bunching in her uniform and then jerking away as red dyes her visions, black closing in until she’s blind. When she turns her head all she can smell is acrid smoke, human flesh.

It’s like being branded all over again, she thinks, nauseous, bile right behind her teeth.

Hands press into her shoulders, but she hisses and writhes away, gasping for air as the burning persists—for minutes or hours she doesn’t know.

And then, just as soon as it comes, the heat disappears, leaving her flesh raw and too sensitive. She realizes her cheeks are wet, her throat dry, and that all of the main lobby is staring at her, laid out upon the floor for all to see. Shame might touch her if she could move her arm, her heart hammering in her ears, but she does feel the vague prick of alarm in the numb that follows.

“Ms. Hanaharu?” Her skin is too hot, blood pounding through her, but she still registers the warm touch against the back of her hand. “Emina?”

Over her, Seven hovers, her face bunched up in acute concern. A healing spell washes through her with all the cool relief of water, and a breath later Emina realizes the danger in her position, her awareness expanding to include more than just the cool marble against her cheek, beneath her palms.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she says, barely hearing herself, trying to push herself off her stomach and to her feet. The movement sends sparks down her spine, and she can’t stop the cry it wrings from her throat. “I’m sorry, I need to go—to go back.”

She sways when she rises, but Seven catches her arm, her expression speeding towards bewildered. The gazes of many push her to grin and bear it for all that her pulse is screaming in her ears, her for all that she thinks she might double over on the spot, acid rushing up. She quakes, dizzy and clueless, but she winces instead of crying out at the brush of fabric against her shoulder—her _brand_. It drives her to pull away from Seven, turn away from her questions, and begin to stagger away, searching for somewhere, anywhere to hide, to find her wounds and curl in on them.

The first thing she sees is a bathroom, tucked away at the edges of the main lobby, and even if every step tears up her spine and into the soft flesh of her brand, she doesn’t stop until she slams the door behind her, tears in her eyes,  and locks it with trembling hands.

She barely catches herself on one of the sinks within, looking into the face staring back at her as if she doesn’t recognize it, doesn’t recognize the wild-eyed stare, the pale-faced girl who looks ready to faint at any moment. The mirror reflects someone she hasn’t seen in a long time, terror robbing all the beauty from her.

Memories flood her of the facility, her brand throbbing one-two with her heart, and she looks away, the sudden movement nearly toppling her.

“Please,” she says, moving very slowly for all that she wants to rip at her jacket until it falls away.

She doesn’t know what she’s asking for, but the buttons give, and Emina turns, craning her neck as carefully as she can to catch sight of her shoulder in the mirror. The sleeveless shirt worn below offers only a glimpse of the black and red of her brand, but what she sees makes her chest constrict, throat clenching.

It’s _changed_.

Struggling out of her jacket, Emina peels off her shirt as well, fighting back tears as the fabric pulls from her flesh, burned to the surface so that it leaves angry red welts when she manages to get it off, patches of skin stuck to it.

With nothing to hide her brand any longer, Emina traces the too familiar outline of it with her eyes—and the new additions. In the upper left quadrant of the design, new words appear, formed by the burns in her skin. The skin around them is blistered and pink, but Emina reads them over and over, not believing, breathing too fast, too hard.They don’t fade no matter how many times she blinks, her vision growing blurry from moisture.

But it’s not enough to erase what she sees. Upon her flesh, she reads:

_Mission: Destroy Red Demons._

 


	3. Chapter 3

Emina doesn’t move, doesn’t dare to breathe. Her heart hammers away in her chest, but her throat closes, a noose pulled tight around her neck in the form of four words, the dozens of implications behind them.

_Not a noose_ , she thinks, hands trembling as she turns to grasp at the edge of the counter. The faces of her trainers swim before her, vision blurring as tears return. _A collar. A leash. Oh Crystals…_

What does this mean? Once upon a time, she’d believed Milites had lost it’s hold on her when it unleashed her on rural Rubrum to find her way to Akademia. Years passed before she could convince herself they wouldn’t know if she missed her nightly routine, muscle strengthening exercises and a swath of moves that could snap a neck, crush a skull. Now… Were they able to monitor her this whole time? Has her brand always been more than just a safety against deserters, against those who might lust for more in life than a suicide mission?

She wants to run. She wants to curl in on herself. In the small bathroom in the heart of Rubrum’s seat of power, Emina sinks to her knees, her forehead pressed to the cool chrome of the countertop.

Her trainers must be blanching to see her like this; where’s that grim resolution they instilled in her, that fear of failure, of what would happen if she disobeyed? It chokes her now, their hands tugging at the lead, collar stealing all the air from her. She’s undone, and she knows it.

Across from her, the door rattles, the lock holding, and a set of heavy knocks follow. “Ms. Hanaharu? Are you alright?”

Remembrance takes her in a flurry of panic, horror at her exposure when so many are so near. On her feet in half a second, she’s yanking on her shirt while craning her neck to look for anyone in the room with her, cursing herself over and over for not checking before she disrobed. Fabric chafes the burned skin of her brand, but she strangles the urge to tear it off and reaches for her jacket in the same breath. The stalls are blessedly empty, but in her haste to make sure, she forgets about the person at the door.

Another round of knocks rattle her head, her pulse pounding just as hard within her chest, and she reaches for her wand on instinct

“Yes!” she answers, perhaps a bit too shrill. “Yes, I’m alright!”

Emina looks at herself in the mirror, the hair plastered to her forehead, sweat dotting her flesh. Desperation marks the scrunch of her brow, the dip of her mouth, the wide eyes that stare back at her like some cornered animal. Her wand looks ready to snap in her iron grip, her posture a threat, a giveaway.

“Just—just give me a moment!”

She twists the handles of the sink, and water sprays out into the basin before her. The feel of cool water against her face can’t calm the rush of adrenaline in her blood, but it does help her smooth her expression to something composed, tame. The corners of her mouth tremble when she smiles, but she’s running out of time to pass this off.

At the last moment, she holsters her wand, turning to the door and steeling herself as best she can.

The lock clicks as she turns it back into place, and outside the door, cadets and staff linger, their eyes wide and watching. She recognizes faces, old students and new acquaintances, and at the front of the pack, Seven, her mouth turned down, and a tall man with enough brass on his shoulder to make her wish she still had her wand.

She glances between them, swallowing, but what can she say?

It’s Seven who speaks first. “What happened?”

“Oh,” she says. “You know…”

The look she gives Emina tells her she has no idea, and it takes all of Emina’s training to stay, to not give to the fear and just escape, heedless of what they think. Floundering, she shrugs, and a lance of pain rips through her unsteady smile, a small, wounded sound making it past her lips.

“ _Training,_ ” Emina manages to wring out, her chest tight. “You hit a bit harder than I expected is all.”

Surprise unfolds on Seven’s face as all eyes turn to her, and her uncertainty transforms into something searching, something pensive. Emina realizes she’s made a mistake when she sees Seven run through the fight in her mind, tacking off what connected, what impacted. She routed most of the spells Seven threw at her, burning through the rest; it doesn’t make sense, never mind that she only fell to the ground now, long after they’d wiped away the sweat and sand from their spar.

“Don’t worry about it,” Emina says quickly, stepping out of the bathroom and into the crowd. Some of the cadets are bored already, wandering off, but the man with the rank looks up from Seven.

“Do you need a medic?” he asks, offering a hand.

“Oh, no. No, that’s fine, really.” She holds up her hands, the movement pulling at the raw flesh of her shoulder. Wincing through it, she says, “It just took me by surprise. I’ll be alright… I think—I think I just need to lie down for a bit.”

He asks if she’s sure, and she promises she is, trying to edge her way towards the stairs and out of sight. Seven doesn’t stray, waiting until Emina has finished assuring the man she’ll be fine by the time she’s expected to assist in the dual-assault. He leaves her at that, turning away, and Emina manages to give Seven a small smile.

Before she can disappear, Seven catches her by the elbow, and Emina jolts. The hand falls away, but her frown remains, the meaning obscured behind the way her eyes flicker between her face and the careful way she holds her shoulders. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” Emina tells her, breathless. “Thank you.”

This time, when Emina makes for safety— _hah_ , she thinks miserably, knowing that such a thing could never exist for her here—nothing stops her. She waves away the nervous, questioning looks the crowds toss her way, hurrying across the gulf to the staircase with long, quick strides. It’s as close to running as she can get, but it still gets her out of the main lobby before anyone can ask her again: _are you alright?_

_No_ , she admits to herself, taking the steps two at a time. _No I’m not._

Could her trainers tell she wasn’t continuing the mission, wasn’t trying to bring Akademia to its knees? How much have they seen? How much do they know?

She shivers, thinking of the isolation chamber that would be her home for days or weeks when she disobeyed simple commands, balked at orders. Those had been such small mistakes—what would her punishment be for abandoning the cause they’d sworn her to?

If her brand can burn orders into her flesh even this far from the Milites border, what else could it do should the need arise?

Emina is winded by the time she reaches her floor, but it’s not from the stairs. Her mind races, spiraling down, down, down until she imagines her trainers waiting for her behind every corner, waiting to snatch her and return her to the facility, to carve their mission into her flesh until even she can’t forget.

She wants to scream that she’s sorry, that she didn’t mean to resist, didn’t really believe she could get away with it, but all the air’s left her, and she stumbles into her room instead, making it halfway to the bed before crumpling.

Panic seizes her chest until it’s all she can do to collapse in something of  neat pile, her legs tangled beneath her, her nails scratching into the front of her uniform. She’s dizzy with regret, but her gaze cuts from corner to corner, searching the shadows for movement. The silver emblem of the Militesi Empire is no where to be seen, but it flashes in her mind’s eye, clear as day.

They must be watching her, must have some way to observe even from so far away. Did they see her spar with Seven? Did they think she was a match for her, for any of them?

“Please,” she hears herself whisper, reaching up to brush her fingers over the brand. Her touch is fire even through her uniform, and she chokes down a whimper, pulling her hand away. “I can’t… I can’t do it. They’ll kill me. Please… _Please_...”

There’s no pain, no immediate reprimand to her pleas. The room remains still and silent all save for Emina’s heartbeat, her shallows gasps for air, and it’s almost too familiar. She tries to hum, anything to take away the illusion that she’s back in Milites, four walls closing in around her, the dark threatening to consume her. It comes broken and punctuated by almost-sobs, and all the strength drains from her until she can no longer hold herself up, her forehead pressed against the back of her arm, body slumped against the floor.

Her brand pulses in time with her heart, but it never grows hot, never gets warm enough to burn. She expects it to sear her through until she complies, until her body is half-charred, flesh melting away, until it’s all she can do to grip her wand, to fall upon Class Zero and let them run her through.

Any moment, she’ll be yanked to her feet by the pain, her trainer’s voices ringing in her ears: _you are Emina Hanaharu, you are Emina Hanaharu and you have a mission._

“I can’t…” she breathes, daring to say it again. “I’ll _die_.”

She waits, waits for her brand to ignite, for troops to storm her room and find her lying there. She waits for Milites to steal her away in the night, drag her over the border kicking and screaming. She waits for the knife to plunge into her exposed back, for the stain on the Empire’s covert operations to be erased, a corpse left for Akademia to find when her flesh begins to rot. They won’t remember her, won’t know who she is; if her trainers are thorough—and they are always thorough—her knowing tag will be burned, the brand carved from her shoulder.

There won’t be a shred of proof she ever existed save her cadaver, yet she lies still, every ounce of strength pooled into breathing in, breathing out. It’s all she can do, and soon even awareness fades into oblivion, the shadows swallowing her whole.

*

Emina startles awake, the rough texture of the carpet and the pink fingers of light slipping through her blinds her only insurance this isn’t the isolation chamber in Milites, her room a dusky grey around her. Half-blind, she gropes for something among the void, and her fingers brush the hanging edge of her duvet.

_Bed_ , she thinks. _I’m still in Rubrum._

That Akademia hasn’t sent anyone to snatch her and strip her down makes her twice blessed, yet none of it matters with the words burned into her flesh.

Rising takes all the strength she has left, and then it’s all she can do to stagger through the dark, finding the wall and following it to her bathroom. White light washes over everything when she finds the switch, and carefully, she begins to peel away her uniform, the jacket first and then the shirt below. They collect at her feet in heaps, and she bypasses her pallored face to look again at her brand.

For all her prayers that the day was just a dream, a nightmare born of old memories and new terrors, she finds the order there all the same. The blisters have faded, a healing spell enough to reduce bubbling flesh to rawness, most of it red or pink. The words blur at the edges, beginning to heal as well, but there’s no denying them, no forgetting her new mission.

_Destroy Red Demons._

A small, hurt sound rises up her in throat, and she remembers Seven, remembers how she chased her across the arena until she was breathless and struggling to keep pace, remembers that it had been a spar, their weapons tossed aside for magic alone. If that had been real, Seven could have opened her from gut to gullet—and there are thirteen more cadets just like her.

Emina tears her gaze away from the mirror, dread choking her. She buries her face in her hands, sliding down with the wall at her side, but it doesn’t change a thing, her fingers grasping uselessly at her hair.

What can she do? Her orders are absolute, yet if Class Zero is her mission, she has already failed. To die at the hands of the Archsorcess’ demons or in sudden immolation, her skin crackling away like paper. A pick of pyres, so long as she marches to hers.

Curling in on herself, Emina tucks her face into her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs like when she was younger, and her brand throbs in time with her pulse. Images play through her mind, every one of them bloody.

Escape occurs to her, but she pushes it away just as quickly. She's toyed with the idea before, but there’s no forgetting what waits beyond Akademia's reach. Her hometown burned because it had been so far from Rubrum's seat of power; the farther she runs from Akademia, the closer she edges to finding herself dodging the fangs and claws of Rubrum's enemies.

Briefly, she wonders what would happen to her if she ever fell into Militesi hands; would they welcome their failure back with more lessons at their facility, more training for another chance, or would they skip straight to the execution? Either way, her brand condemns her wherever she goes, a sentence which hangs just over her shoulder, iron hot.

“I…” _Can’t do it._ The words catch in her throat, teeth ground together to bar their escape.

Failure isn’t an option, never has been. They raised her to hate the country that abandoned her, raised her to turn a smile into a weapon and her body into a force to collapse Rubrum from within. If she turned out incapable, it was only because they taught her fear more efficiently.

Trapped between Rubrum and the Milites Empire, she knows it’s only a matter of time before her blood runs red, another casualty of this war.

“I need more time,” she says aloud, failing to keep the tremor from her voice. Swallowing very slowly and lifting her head, she speaks clearly to the empty air, “To complete my mission… I need time to reaffirm my cover and… And prepare a means to kill the targets.”

She isn’t sure if she should expect a true answer, but all that comes is the sound of her own heartbeat, the bathroom still. If her trainers truly are watching her, she can only take their silence as acceptance, and she lets herself shudder out an exhale; there will be no forge hot reprimand, no new orders burned into her skin.

At least not for now.

Her mind whirs with plans, scenarios, each collapsing in on one another before another is built from the rubble. As if in a daze, she rises, trying to figure out how close she must tread, how long she can stall.

The moment she takes action against Class Zero, she’ll be cut down. But she can’t keep avoiding them, her mission lurking in the shadows of her mind, rearing up only to be pushed away again, forever held at bay. With her trainers watching her, the appearance of progress might be her saving grace, the only stay to her execution.

If she can make it look good, make her inaction a symptom of circumstance or station, she may survive to see this war’s end, and then, in the aftermath, could she return to her life her in Rubrum, pick up a class and forget? Could she be free of this half-life should the war end, free to live without looking over her shoulder?

She worries her lip between her teeth, jittery, and slips out of the bathroom, her room growing lighter at the insistence of the sun. It will be time for her to dress and shower soon, and the last thing she can afford is to deviate from the mundane. Stalling or no, it was no lie that cadets and faculty will be looking at her with renewed interest after yesterday.

She will need to tread carefully to make sure that interest fades before it can reach those who might look with suspicion rather than curiosity.

Fluorescent bulbs flicker on above her at the touch of the switch, sterile light banishing the deep shadows at the corners of her room. She hesitates a moment, picking out the spots where a person might hide and then moving on, her back straight, shoulders tense. Firstly, she needs to take care of her brand, and perching on the edge of her bed, she lets her fingers drift beneath her collar, chancing just close enough for the relief of her healing spell to wash over the brand immediately.

The sensitivity fades until the feeling of fabric against flesh doesn’t invoke pain, until she can make herself take long, deep breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth.

She waits until she can smile like she was taught, brilliant, distracting, and keep her hands at her sides where they won’t wring. And then she rises, heading for the bathroom once more to begin her day, the creeping shadow of her mission pushed back from her thoughts, if only for the moment.

*

With no class to occupy her, Emina is given free reign of the school throughout the days so long as she reports for her assignments and doesn’t disappear from campus for more than a full 24 hour period. Usually, this leaves her with too much time, too many hours of the day to fill with something besides her idle thoughts, but today, there’s no time to waste.

Blood thrumming with adrenaline, she makes her way down to the main lobby, checking every side corridor and alcove as she passes, not a hair out of place. The dark bags beneath her eyes were easy enough to conceal with make-up, a dusting of blush enough to erase the pallor of her complexion; there’s nothing to be done about the worry lines at the corners of her mouth, so she tries to smile as she gives security forces a wide berth, her strides quick.

She’ll start with the cadets, working her way through them until they all remember how friendly she is, how helpful, and then, when she’s finished, she’ll move onto the staff, fellow commanding officers and scientists alike.

Sorcery… The thought of approaching Sorcery twists her up inside, and she pushes it away as best she can, though the feeling persists, an illness she carries into her first group of cadets loitering before classes begin.

Striking up conversations is easier than she imagines, picking out a student she tutored once in the healing arts and asking after her progress. On her last mission, she saved a classmate from a chest wound that would have killed him otherwise, and nudging the boy next to her, she tells him to show Emina the scars. He shakes his head with a telling flush, mumbling something about a sniper getting off a lucky shot, and Emina teases the appropriate amount.

Then she reminds them all to be careful during the dual front, and after they wish her the same, one of the others in the group asks about yesterday.

“Oh? You heard about that?” she asks, twisting her head away, managing to feign embarrassment well enough.

It’s no surprise the story has made it across Akademia by now, but this question is the reason she left her room this morning, looking radiant despite her every quelm.

Assuring them she was taken by surprise at the severity of her training injury, she dismisses their concern, equal parts thankful and nonchalant. She’s halfway through promising she’s taken care of herself, reminding her former student just who taught her how to care for wounds, when a detail of security officers turn the corner onto the hallway she’s in and her mind blanks, words trailing off.

Roving patrols circle at noon and after the sun has fallen, but this early in the day? Something must have prompted it, some new threat, something to heighten the security…

Her breath catches in her throat, and she turns without a word, ducking around another corner, her face frozen in alarm, senses pricked for the sound of a chase, their heavy boots upon the floor. They carried rifles, but there’s no gunshot, no bullet that takes her between the shoulder blades. One hallway passes her by and then another, losing herself in the maze of Akademia’s classrooms and experimental testing sites, but no one gives follows.

When she finally manages to convince herself they weren’t meant for her, she remembers the cadets she left behind, fleeing at the sight of security. She was meant to alleviate suspicion, remove her name from gossiping tongues. Now… Now they’ll talk even more, lining up the evidence something is wrong.

She leans against a wall, feeling her brand acutely, and touches her constricting chest, trying to regulate her breathing. The halls empty around her, only students with study blocks and staff members running errands left, and quietly, Emina says, “I can do it. Just… I just need a moment.”

It’s not entirely for her own sake, but her brand doesn’t respond, dormant as it was up until yesterday. Pushing herself off the wall, she prays it stays that way.

It’s harder to get back into things after that. She finds cadets with textbooks in cubbies all over the school, but none of her lies come smoothly, each ragged and hitching any time a Sorcery engineer appears, any time she spots that roving patrol.

She keeps at it for what must be hours, but each encounter seems to go more poorly than the one before, and eventually she has to drag herself into a bathroom and lock the door behind her, clambering to the sinks to support herself, struggling just to breathe.

All of her screams she’s misstepped, that everyone can see through her lies, their narrow looks following her around every corner. It prickles right between her shoulder blades, one thousand gazes made palpable, and it’s all she can do to retreat, cursing her quivering voice, all the clever words she’s been taught to deceive made stumbling by her useless tongue.

It’s a long time before she can settle herself, but when she finally doesn’t feel like she might fall over or vomit just from standing, she slips quietly out of the bathroom, meaning to return to her room and figure out how to force down the anxiety just enough to smile and strut.

Before she can even make it to the main lobby, however, her winding route leads her right into a rush of cadets making their way to the lunchroom, and the loss of the morning hits her even harder, a timer ticking down until someone with authority hears about Emina Hanaharu and her strange behavior, until her trainers decide she’s taking too long and her brand comes alive again.

Emina waits at the edges of the hall, back to the wall, her greetings made through tight lips, her hand hovering near her wand.

“Emina!”

She startles, her eyes flicker up from the crowd to the head of cobalt hair steadily approaching, tall enough to be seen above the lunchtime buzz.

Heart fluttering, she gives a shaky wave, a sudden spike of relief making her want to sag. Kurasame’s presence is a salve, her place at his side carved out in the bend of his elbow. If she seems hasty in interlocking their arms, it’s only because she trusts him to support her should her knees fail.

“Oh, you have no idea how happy I am to see you,” she says, burying her face into his shoulder.

“You don’t look well.” His brows settle low, scrutinizing. “I heard something happened to you yesterday.”

She doesn’t have to meet his eyes to know he’s asking. Her brand pulses faintly, an echo of the searing heat which burned through her, but she turns away from his concern, saying, “I’m fine now.”

A moment passes before he responds. “Of course. Are you busy?”

His care has always been comforting; Kurasame puts her word above his understanding, solid and sturdy if she needs a place to retreat to, open should she care to talk.

(She never does, but it’s touching all the same.)

She is busy, she should be, but she can barely keep herself together to hold a conversation with this many patrols lurking in every shadow, so she shakes her head and asks, “What did you have in mind?”

“Lunch,” he says. “And a gift.”

Emina glances up at him, head tilting in surprise, but he just slips his arm from hers and reaches into his coat pocket, retrieving a book with a familiar cover and handing it off for her to inspect.

“ _Til Finis Comes, With You?_ ”

He looks pleased with himself. “That’s the next book in the series, isn’t it? It’s an apology from my student, Queen.”

Queen’s name settles like a lump in Emina’s throat, the memory of her knowing smile sending a shot of panic through her. “Oh?” she manages, flipping it open, her fingers trembling. “She didn’t have to…”

“She recognized her behavior yesterday was disrespectful and inappropriate. I promised I’d pass along her sentiments.”

Swallowing, she tries her best at a smile and closes the novel, tucking it beneath her arm. Class Zero is the last thing she wants to talk about, especially with Kurasame, and so she changes the topic before the relief he’s brought her evaporates.

“You’ll have to thank her for me,” she says quietly. Not relishing the thought of the cafeteria, the people too numerous to watch, she asks, “But for now: lunch? Perhaps we could take it elsewhere?”

Kurasame’s pleasure is unmistakable. “The courtyard’s chrysanthemums are in bloom, I hear.”

He offers his arm, and she gladly takes it, trying to smother her runaway thoughts before they can circle back to Class Zero, for the motives behind this gift.

With Kurasame by her side, it’s easier. She has to listen to hear his words over the chatter of the busy corridors, and she can’t freeze up at the lingering glance of a guard. They are moving, moving, never pausing to think or worry.

When they reach the cafeteria, it’s no less nerve-wracking than she imagined, whole squads of security forces gathered in groups, their rifles all polished. It may be her imagination, but even with the amalgam of smells from a dozen different dishes, she detects the faint scent of gunpowder, distinct enough to send shivers down her spine.

Kurasame is unflappable at her side. “What do you want?”

“Something small,” she says, trying not to look too nervous as she scans the room. “I’m not very hungry.”

As the two of them move towards the queues for lunch, Arlene catches her eye with a wave from her usual position beneath the cafeteria’s clock. Forever ago, Emina meant to catch up with her, but now it’s hard to meet her eyes, her rifle loaded and ready. She offers her a small smile, barely there, and then looks away.

This morning she meant to dispel the stories circulating about her, but now she wants nothing more than to escape with Kurasame, find a quiet spot and forget about the world, if only for a while.

But at the edges of her vision, she sees Arlene move toward her, intent, and her smile becomes full of angles. “Excuse me,” she says to Kurasame, unhooking from his arm and turning toward Arlene. “I’ll be just a moment.”

Kurasame glances down at her and then takes note of Arlene, but he just nods, continuing through the line as Emina goes to meet Arlene halfway, her jaw clenched.

“Been a while!” Arlene says, wrapping Emina in a hug that feels just a tad too constrictive. If she notices the way Emina goes stiff, she doesn’t mention, pulling back. “I heard about yesterday.”

Emina laughs enough so she hopes to sound convincing but fetters off before it rings false, and she dismisses the apparent rumor that one of Class Zero struck her when she had her back turned, promising it was a simple training accident and that she’s fine, really.

“Well, what were they like?” Arlene asks her, disappointment drawing her lips together in a frown. “You were _with_ one of them, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Emina says, her mind flickering back to Seven, the way her expression shifted when Emina claimed her injury was from their spar. She struggles to keep her smile from going rictus, hurrying to say something before she can worry if it’s suspicion blooming on her face or not. “She was… Intimidating. But very good. I doubt I could help her much more.”

“Crazy you taught one of them.” Arlene glances to Kurasame, who is picking up what looks like two boxed lunches, one for each of them. “You know, I heard they were bringing in Lady Caetuna to take _his_ place. She arrived last night—some of the graveyard shift saw her come in, it’s true.”

“Oh, is that so?” Lady Caetuna here already? Emina knew she was meant to participate in the dual front, but with that still a week away, she never imagined the elusive Lady Caetuna would arrive so early. Her mind spins with possibilities, wondering if she’s the cause for the change in patrols, but all the while she keeps her voice just interested enough, her eyes flickering to Kurasame helplessly. “A l’Cie as a commanding officer? I can’t imagine.”

“Oh, Lady Caetuna would never do it for a regular class, but these are _Doctor Arceia’s_ pets.” Tucking a piece of blond hair behind her ear, Arlene shrugs like it’s common knowledge. “She’d do anything to get at the Arch-Sorceress.”

How easy would it be to get at a Militesi spy, should that mission fall to her? “I suppose.”

Arlene opens her mouth like she means to say more but stops midway, looking up. Her hands shaking, Emina glances over her shoulder and finds Kurasame waiting, patient as ever.

She puts on her best smile and turns back to Arlene. “I’ll talk to you later, Arlene. You be careful on the dual-front.”

After being wished the same, Arlene let’s her go, only adding as an afterthought that she has to throttle Jeralt if she sees him—this is the fifth time he’s left her alone on a shift this month. Emina promises to do just that and makes her escape from the cafeteria at Kurasame’s side, feeling sicker than before.

It’s only when they’re safely out of the cafeteria, the voices and chaos growing ever distant at their backs, that Emina realize Kurasame is holding her lunch as well. Tittering, she takes it from him, saying, “Sorry. And thank you.”

He nods, asking. “The courtyard?”

“Yes,” she says, stacking the lunch atop her book but then pausing. Her voice comes slowly, like she can’t quite coax it out, fearful of the implications of her words. “The Council… The Council doesn’t have plans to replace you, do they? As head of Class Zero?”

The look he shoots her way is questioning, brow bunched. “Not that I’ve heard.”

“ _Would_ you hear?” she persists, frowning deeply. She halts, feet planted, and he stops as well, searching. “If they meant to replace you, would you know?”

After a moment, he shakes his head. Kurasame’s voice comes steady, his expression unchanging, “I don’t think so.

Gnawing at her lip until she tastes blood, Emina looks away, surprised with herself. There’s a tight knot of nausea in her gut that extinguishes what remains of her appetite, and she licks her lips, wiping away the blood. “Be careful. They don’t care about you, Kurasame.”

He blinks, but his tone is perfectly neutral. “I know, Emina. Is everything alright?”

Acceptance. The realization sinks in as he motions for them to continue, his head held high. _A soldier_ , she thinks, her lips quivering. Born to the sword, to service. He knows he is expendable, and yet he marches proudly, refuses to run from it, to live a half-life. His courage makes her ache, her brand twinging, a reminder.

At the end of the day, she will never be like him. He may be expendable, but he is also a Champion of Rubrum, a hero. She is the enemy, her allegiance spelled out on her skin. How futile to pretend she belongs, to wish for something more.

At the end of this war, Kurasame will have a life to which he’ll return, but even if she survives to see Rubrum conquer or fall, there will be nothing for her to pick up again—more hiding perhaps, or her empty hopes of forgetting that everything could come crashing down around her at any moment.

“Yes,” she says, bowing her head. “Everything’s alright.”

He offers his arm to her, but the gesture feels hollow, a sickening realization running her through. It was foolish to think she might truly live once this war ends. They set off again, the taste of blood lingering on her tongue, and in her heart, she knows this brand will hound her until the day she dies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually gonna have to start writing new chapters soon because I'm running out of buffer! Still have one more chapter before we're caught up tho.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so much fun to write. Enjoy the culmination of Awful. Y'all should pay attention to that Graphic Depictions of Violence warning up top for this one 'cause it's a doozy. :>

After a lunch with Kurasame that’s quieter than usual, they part, waving each other off as he makes for the portal and she turns towards the stairs.

Every step back to her room drags, her shoulders crumbling in on one another as exhaustion sets in. She’s run ragged, yet she’s hardly accomplished a thing today. Fruitless, she can’t find peace, Queen’s expensive, hard-backed gift clutched close to her side.  

She examines it as soon as she’s back in her room, turning it over and over, trying to puzzle out the meaning in it. It wouldn’t be the first gift she’s received from a student, but something nags her about Queen; there were sides to Seven which weren’t edges to impale herself upon, but somehow she can’t imagine the same for Queen, her violet eyes keen, hungry, driven.

The simple part is telling herself not to worry, that it’s a gift to be set upon her shelves until she’s finished the book she’s on—it’s much harder to actually follow through, flipping through the pages for some hidden message until the hour waxes past midnight, her vision blurring, her back aching from long hours bent over the text.

Emina puts the book with the rest, but even dog-tired, she can’t get her mind to shut off. She tosses and turns, drifting between fitful sleep, nightmares with creatures which look far too similar to the security forces here at Akademia, and dreadful waking, hardly able to move but still the victim of her mind’s delusions.

When the sun rises, it feels inhumane to have to pull herself from the bed, respite finally within reach now that the morning hours are upon her, but she showers and dresses all the same.

The second day is as wasted as the first, if not more. She does what she can to appear untroubled, but with every moment she spends trying to convince others is another moment she feels more and more sure she’s failing. When she can take no more, she goes to the library to bury herself within the shelves, keeping an eye out for Kazusa should he emerge from his lab.

He doesn’t, not even when she skips dinner in hopes she’ll see him, but the library has enough niches for her to rotate through, each feeling just a bit more secure than the last. It isn’t much, but it helps.

Later, when the library is still and empty, she pulls herself from her spot and closes her book, tucking it beneath her arm to be set aside with the rest of her finished novels. She considers starting the new one from Queen, but the thought makes her squirm and reminds her too much of things she wants to forget when she reads.

Sleep comes no easier that night, but with the dual front a short five days away, she’s forced to try. Besides, the shadows which cling to her face even after she’s pulled herself from beneath the sheets are getting harder to cover up, proof to anyone that she’s coming apart at the seams for lack of sleep, if nothing else.

The third day she does something different.

Her thoughts cycle back to her mission even when the day is still new and there is noise and distraction. The thought that she may be running out of time before her trainers decide she is moving too slowly weighs on her more with each passing hour. They expect results, she knows, and whatever patience they showed in her previous ten years in Akademia will not withstand this war. The Militesi Empire needs a decisive strike, a crippling shot to weaken Rubrum just enough to sweep through in the aftermath.

So she visits Class Zero.

Waiting until the first bell has rung, she closes in on their classroom in a roundabout, loitering path, but even then, Emina only makes it to the end of the hall, the double doors to their lecture room in sight, before her throat closes up, unable to draw closer.

They’re model students, never out of class when they shouldn’t be--truly, Dr. Arecia’s most exquisite creations--but she can’t take another step even in the name of her ruse. The only thing she can do is turn away, the image of herself torn to shreds at their feet too vivid in her mind’s eye, but at the other end of the hall, the sight of crimson turns her blood to ice.

 _Queen_ , Emina thinks, frozen in place, not even drawing breath.

Violet eyes run her over once, twice, three times, but without staying to assess, Queen strides past her, silent as a cat on the prowl. Emina doesn’t move until she hears the click of doors behind her, a split second of Kurasame’s voice slipping through the door. With nothing but her own pulse resounding in her ears, she glances over her shoulder, sure they’ll all be there, summoning their weapons in pops of light and ozone.

It takes everything in her not to run, hurrying through the walks as fast as her feet can carry her with breaking into a sprint. She flees and makes a sanctuary of the gardens behind the school, but even huddled among the birches and wild flowers, she can’t catch her breath.

What was it in Queen’s stare? Indifference? Or perhaps something more cunning, the intention purposefully obscured.

She flees from the gardens as well, unable to find solace in anything but her own unsettlingly solitude.

The fourth day she feels close to death, sustained for too long on winks of sleep stolen in the late hours of the night. Her face is beginning to look gaunt, a combination of a deep disinterest in food and bouts of nausea that sabotage the sparse moments when her appetite returns. There’s nothing she can do to help it save eat, so she sets out early for breakfast, trying to keep her head held high.

Before she can reach the cafeteria, crimson dances at the edge of her vision, and she turns, finding Queen a dozen paces behind her, two books tucked under her arm. She meets Emina’s gaze with a look that’s equal parts cool and expectant, as though she’s waiting for Emina to say something.

What it could be, she has no idea, and the sight of Queen upsets her more than she can truly justify; ducking down a side corridor, she skips the cafeteria entirely and retires to her room not a half hour after emerging from it.

Later that day, she manages to visit the small shoppette on the upper floors and grab a few packaged snacks to fill the void of her stomach, but on her way up the stairs, she’s certain she hears footsteps two flights below her. Stopping to listen, they fetter out, silence pervasive in the stairwell, but as soon as she starts up again, they do as well.

After that, she tries not to leave at all.

Suddenly all she can do is sleep, the whiplash of zero to sixty leaving her just as exhausted as before and no more sane. The few times she finds herself awake for more than an hour or two, she guzzles water and tears through what’s left of her purchased foods and then drifts off again, time bleeding together. Her dreams are dark and slither with faces and voices she can’t forget, her room in the facility, the first time they told her Rubrum had abandoned her. Waking leaves her unsure of what’s the dream and what constitutes reality, her fingers creeping beneath the collar of her t-shirt.

Once, in a daze, she rolls out of bed and pulls her shirt from her body, turning on the lights and hurrying to the bathroom. She dreamed her brand changed again, a new mission spelled out in her burning flesh, but when she looks at herself in the mirror, she finds it the same as before.

She returns to the shirt she dropped on the floor of her bedroom but hesitates in yanking it back on. Slowly, she reaches back, touch drifting closer and closer to her brand until she’s got it beneath her fingers, an unusual warmth suffusing from her skin.

The exploration is new—she spent most of her years trying to forget it existed at all—but now she investigates every inch of it. Pressing slightly, she swallows the lump in her throat, confirming what she already knew. Just below the surface, she can feel an unusual stiffness, a faint resistance that isn’t muscle or bone.

_A transmitter._

It’s how they must have activated the brand after so long. Mapping it out beneath her fingers, she ignores the twinges of pain. It’s flexible, enough so that the pain of it not moving quite right with the rest of her shoulder could easily be mistaken for lingering aches from the procedure. And the warmth… If it’s truly still running, it must be some of the highest quality tech Milites has ever created.

How long will it continue to function? The thought makes her sick, and she pulls her shirt back on and climbs into bed, pulling the covers up to her ears.

Her COMM blinks with an alert, but checking it reveals a school-wide reminder for the coming mission and a couple of texts from both Kurasame and Kazusa. The clock in the corner of the device reads 4:47. With the dual front only 36 hours away, she knows her chances to recover are slipping away, so she turns off the screen without looking at the their messages.

The next time she wakes, she feels no more rested than the times before, but she drags herself from the bed, her thoughts for once as sluggish as the rest of her. Her hunger has returned, so she dresses and tries to convince herself that she needs this for the mission, that her body has gone too long without already.

Emina makes it all the way to the cafeteria before she notices Queen.

Food piles upon her plate, forming a mountain of protein and carbs she so desperately needs, but at the sight of crimson in the cadet tables, violet eyes firmly trained on her, Emina has to resist the urge to stand and depart without touching it. Looking anywhere but there, Emina forces herself to eat, choking twice because she won’t slow down, but her body accepts it without complaint or threat of illness, so as soon as she’s cleared her plate, she rises—as does Queen.

She’s out of the cafeteria in a record thirty seconds, quick strides taking her past a waving Arlene, Jeralt still nowhere to be seen. But just as she’s about to turn a corner and bolt, her feet taking her as far as they can, she comes face to face with Seven, all the momentum stolen from her.

“Emina!” Seven says, surprise consuming her expression for just a moment. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Emina’s heart pounds in her chest, her brand flaring painfully at the feel of a hunter’s sights. She glances over her shoulder, and sure enough, Queen hesitates just outside the cafeteria’s double doors.

Seven follows her gaze, and Queen’s expression twists, displeasure clear. Yet even the look Seven shoots her isn’t enough to scare her off the scent, her strides towards them confident, perfectly measured.

Trapped like a hart between circling wolves, Emina does the only thing she can: she flees. Seven’s voice trails after her, but when she turns a corner, Queen has Seven by the wrist, her jaw tight, words a hiss between ground teeth.

There’s no sleeping after that. Her room offers the suggestion of security, but it’s as flimsy as her cover, four walls given to her by the people who could be hunting her. And now Emina is certain she’s being hunted, the images of Queen and Seven swimming before her watering eyes. Uselessly, she tries to focus on the dual front, on proving her loyalty through battle, but the more she thinks on what tomorrow will bring, the more convinced she is that if Concordian forces don’t kill her, Rubrum blades will find the soft flesh of her neck.

Curling in on herself, she closes her eyes and prays, the hours ticking down, a counter on her life.

*

The day comes with only a few moments of sleep to pattern her growing fears.

Emina dresses and checks and rechecks her potions, her wand, her brand. She skips breakfast, waiting for the time to present herself for final mission briefings, a knot of anxiety in her gut. She does her best not to think at all, even pulling old novels from the shelf and trying in vain to leaf through them.

It’s only when the mission alarm sounds, a constant wailing that echoes through every corner of the school, that she can pull herself from her pacing, slipping out into the hallway, her eyes searching for a splash of crimson among the mantles of her peers.

For once, there’s no sign of Queen, and she closes her door behind her, not meeting the eyes of the other commanding officers as they march towards the main portal. She turns towards the stairwell, but a shout from behind her freezes her in her tracks.

“Emina!”

Her wand is in her hands when she turns, but instead of guards, it’s Kazusa pushing past others to reach her.

“Kazusa?” she asks, the sound lost to the alarm above them.

Fury adorns his every move, red faced and sweating, but he doesn’t stop until he has her by the shoulders, his glasses askew. Even gasping for air, he digs his fingers in, sure to bruise later.

“They’ve done it!” he pants, shaking her.

“What?” Emina shrinks, a dozen scenarios playing through her mind. She’s never seen him like this. “Kazusa, what—”

“Kurasame!” he shouts. “They’re deploying him to the Militesi front, and he isn’t fighting them!”

The mission alarm blares in her ears even louder than the sound of her heartbeat.

 _Kurasame? On the Militesi front?_ Her throat constricts. _Oh Crystals…_

Kazusa shakes her again, trying to drag a reaction from her, but Emina is too stunned to speak. _He’ll die_ , she thinks, growing breathless. _They know he won’t survive this._

“We have to stop this,” he demands, but Emina can’t answer. “Emina!”

When her words fail her, Kazusa pushes past her, his labcoat snapping behind him as he heads back towards the portal, shoving to throw people out of the way. His mission is written out in the snarl on his lips, the flash of true wrath in his eyes when he turns to see if Emina is following him.

She stands rooted to the spot, immobile. He’ll go to the Council. He’ll… He might…

Seeing her frozen, Kazusa whips around, stepping into the portal without another moment wasted on her cowardice. Kurasame may die on the battlefield, but Kazusa won’t make it past the double-doors of the Council’s chambers. The guards will see his intention in the set of his shoulders. They’ll strike him down before he has a chance to get at the Council, and she… She can’t…

Emina wheels around, breaking out into a sprint, her friend abandoned. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she takes the stairs four at a time, her weak body pushed to its limits in a bid to catch Kurasame before it’s too late, to stop him from going, to save Kazusa.

No one stops her. No one even sees her. Everyone is making last minutes preparations, final briefs being held in all of the classrooms as the alarm continues to scream overhead. That’s where Kurasame will be, that’s where she’ll catch him, plead with him to resist, to disobey. She’ll fall to her knees and beg him not to march to his death, and then, if she’s lucky, he’ll save Kazusa, stop him from killing himself as well.

It’s only as she gets closer that she remembers what lies between them.

The doors to Class Zero’s lecture hall are closed, but she knows they’re just beyond them, vicious fangs hidden behind young faces. They might as well be a wall, Kurasame on the other side. She hesitates, cadets filing into the other classrooms around her. Dread creeps up her spine, and she can’t force herself to take another step.

 _You horrible coward_ , she thinks, wiping her eyes. _They’re going to die!_

Yet seconds pass and then minutes, but Emina doesn’t move, frozen in place even with so much at stake, even with her only friends in the world both sprinting towards their dooms.

Useless hatred roils in her gut—for herself, for Kurasame and Kazusa, for all of Rubrum and Milites alike. Her hands quake with it, but for as much as she wants to scream and fight and cry, she can’t make herself walk. A sob escapes before she can strangle it, but she turns her face into her shoulder, hating, fearing, stagnant.

Running. She’s been running her whole life and now she can’t take even one step!

If—If it weren’t for her brand… If it weren’t for Milites, for her mission, for the proof of her guilt drawn out on her skin… She sucks in a shuddering breath, fingers digging into the flesh of her shoulder. Would she be able to save them if it weren’t for this? Would she…

“Emina?”

Emina’s heart jumps, a sudden wave of hope overcoming her. She whirls, face flushed and wet with tears and smiling all the same, but it isn’t Kazusa come back from his suicide mission, sense returned to him. Instead, Seven catches her shoulder when she sees her face, concern written out in the dip of her brows.

“Emina? What’s wrong?” she asks, the alarm still wailing above them.

Her hope turns to terror, and it’s all Emina can do to shake away from her, taking three steps back. A man at Seven’s side—Jeralt, from the lunchroom, his rifle over his shoulder—sets a hand on her shoulder, and Seven’s pursuit stops before it can begin.

“Nothing,” Emina sputters. “N-nothing, nothing. I’m sorry, I was just—I was just going.”

“Wait!” She reaches for Emina as she tries to hurry by, but Jeralt won’t let go. She jerks away from him and moves quick enough to make Emina freeze, the air crackling around her, fight or flight. “Please. I really need to talk to you— _now_.”

Jeralt follows the two long strides she’s taken toward Emina, jittery. “Come on, Seven. This is vital! Your squad can’t leave without it.”

“I know,” she says over her shoulder, dangerously close to snapping, but her expression when she turns back on Emina is hesitant, worried. “Just—just give me a second. Go on ahead.”

He doesn’t, lingering over her shoulder and glancing between her and the doors to Class Zero’s lecture hall, but Seven doesn’t seem to notice, holding her hands up. Emina can’t meet her eyes, but Seven doesn’t try to come closer, almost as if she knows Emina’s a hair’s breadth from bolting or turning the hallway into a warzone.

“Listen, we need to talk,” she begins as softly as she can with the alarm still going off. “I… There’s something you need to know. About Queen.”

“Queen?” She sounds terrified, weak even to her own ears. “What? What about her?”

“No one has talked to you, and… And I don’t like her methods. She’s been following you. I think you’ve noticed… _She_ thinks you’ve noticed. It’s not right, I told her that, but—”

“Why? _Why_?”

Seven takes a slow step closer, and behind her, Jeralt shuffles, wringing the rifle strap across his chest with both hands. “It was a mission from Sorcery. Mother has suspicions... Please, just stay there. I want to talk to you about this, Emina. I don’t think you’re… Queen shouldn’t have followed you _or_ given you that book.”

Emina inches back, sweat dotting her brow, soaking the back of her neck. She needs to run, needs to move, but Seven’s gaze holds her there as effectively as chains.  “Suspicions? Of _what_? I haven’t done anything. Nothing. Seven, I swear, I just need to _go_.”

Seven opens her mouth to respond, but the only thing Emina hears is crack of metal on wood, doors at the end of the hall flung open. Kurasame appears at the fore, Class Zero at his back, and Emina feels her heart jump into her throat, stealing all the air from her—and then she spots Queen, and all the fear returns, her veins pumped full of it. She’s turning before she can stop herself, no plan, no excuse prepared, but Seven catches her wrist before she can escape.

“Emina!” Her grip tightens, and magic rushes to Emina’s palm. “You deserve a chance to explain—even if you are a spy! But if you do something now—”

Ice blooms between them, and Emina twists away, careening into a wall before taking off. She can hear footsteps behind her, pursuit. She’ll be taken down, teeth about her throat, her neck snapped before she can resist, prey in the jaws of some great predator. They know— _they’ve known_.

She feels it, just as she’s about to reach the end of the hall. The weight of the world comes crashing down on her back, four feet with hooked claws, and she smashes into the ground, her heart exploding in her ears as her head cracks against the floor. Her body contorts, flipped and spun until direction abandons her and it’s all she can do to realize she’s not sliding across the floor anymore.

Fire tears up along her spine as a million shadows race past her, her head ringing, throbbing—oh, she hit the ground too hard, too fast. Fireworks dance across her vision and everything is washed white, but she can’t think, can’t see, can’t hear. She wheezes, trying to breathe, and ash rushes down her throat to clutter her lungs.

Emina struggles to push herself up, but it’s not because someone is there to hold her down. Her head spins, thoughts slipping by without traction, and she coughs desperately, blinking hard to clear the spots from her sight. It takes longer than it should for her to realize she’s been tossed onto her side, her shoulder taking the brunt of the collision.

 _What_ , she thinks, feeling the impact along her ribs, her skull, the backs of her thighs and up her spine. The ringing in her ears won’t subside, robbing the air of all sound, but magical residue lingers on her tongue like a film. _What’s_ —

The world fills in around her slowly, the heat coiling about her throat, burning her chest from the inside. Pebbles of tile dig into her hands when she rises, the ground beneath her coated in dust, more lingering in the air like a miasma. She stares, but nothing makes sense, shapes and colors dancing before her, and she’s overcome with nausea. Canting her head over her shoulder makes everything swim, but even when the scene comes together, it seems more figment than fact.

She notices the blood first. It’s mixed among the scorched stone, the crumbling walls and ceilings, the electrical lights hanging by cables. Visceral patterns paint what remains; but it’s their origins which Emina struggles with longest. Bodies—a dozen of them, more even. They lie scattered, limbs separated at the joints, and the ones that remain whole are twisted into inhuman shapes, thrown against walls or each other. But where did they come from?

Emina stares, taking shuddering breaths that are more ash than air. She touches the throbbing side of her head and comes back wet with blood, but nothing falls into place. She keeps looking, keeps expecting something to suddenly make sense, but between feeling herself waver along awareness and checking over and over that her jacket is fine, her shoulders covered, she loses track of time until things start to move.

Doors splinted from the force of the blast open tentatively, commanding officers covering their ears emerging with their weapons held at the ready. The ones closer to the heavy scorch marks don’t have doors anymore, and there’s a gap in the wall where Class Third holds their briefs.

 _An explosion_. She turns away and then looks back, her pulse pounding in her head. _How?_

Sound begins to return, the mission alarm still wailing, but now far off cries punctuate the faint whir of the siren. One commanding officer rushes to the nearest body, magic pooling in his hands, but the spell rejects against the skin of the cadet, their uniform dyed crimson like their mantle. How many are dead? How many remain?

Wobbling to her feet, Emina staggers, her skin prickling from the static in the air, the remains of a magic-fueled explosion. She blinks, a woman rushing to her side and speaking, saying—saying something.

She can’t hear her, can’t understand, and her eyes won’t focus, tracing the chaos as it unfolds around her, people emerging from the lecture halls, so many, oh so many. They linger by the doors, their hands clasped over their mouths, eyes stuck on the bodies—who were they? why did this happen?—until something draws them out, until someone takes charge.

“—haru, you’re—”

Emina blinks, trying to sharpen the lines of her vision, but all the concentration only hurts her head, and the rest of her hurts too much already. She coughs, but her lungs are full of soot, and all the air she takes in is poison, filling her up inside until there won’t be any room left to breathe.

The woman touches her face, looks into her eyes, but whatever she’s searching for, Emina doesn’t have it. She turns, looking over her shoulder, and Emina’s gaze drifts to the shape on the ground farthest from the scorch marks. Grey hair, or maybe that’s the ash. She’s face-down, blood pooling around her head even as a cadet kneels next to her, magic curling at his fingertips.

He moves her—he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, but he’s too young to know better—but freezes halfway in turning her over, pulling his hands away as if he’s been burned.

The woman squeezes her arm, and she jerks back to attention at the press of cloth over her mouth and nose, brows dipping. Shaking her head makes her sway on the spot, sparks of pain surging along her skull, and it’s only the hard fingers around her bicep keeping her upright.

“Breathe with—hey!—hey, look at me and take deep breaths,” the woman says, her voice muffled through her mantle, tied around her face. “That’s it, good. What happened?”

For the first time since… since… She doesn’t know, but she breathes easier even if nothing makes sense. Emina opens her mouth to respond, but words don’t come, her eyes trailing back to the body of the cadet on the floor.

Her face is bloodied, dirty, but there’s something striking about it, something that catches in her mind. She knows her, her clothes stained crimson. She knows her eyes, wide and unseeing, and something sharp and frenzied builds in her gut until she thinks it may spill from her lips.

_Destroy Red Demons._

It comes back piece by piece, her head pounding harder and harder. Her mission. Class Zero. Seven. Sorcery. Crystals, they know everything, they know and now…

She looks upon the scene, triage being performed on those being pulled from the collapsing Class Third lecture hall, the bodies littered before her, motionless, unattended. She looks at Seven’s body, beaten and broken, lifeless as the rest of them, and she pushes away from the woman still trying to talk to her.

“No—no!” She breaks free, stumbling into a pair of cadets evacuating the scene, their clothes filthy.

The woman reaches for her, but magic shifts across her palms, her spell coming half formed. The air freezes, shards of ice catching on dust and falling like snow, and Emina staggers away, her mind too sluggish, barely keeping up with her feet.

Sorcery _knows_ she’s a spy. It’s why she hasn’t had a class, why she isn’t on the dual front. Did they know she was supposed to destroy Class Zero? Did they know about her mission?

She stumbles through the main lobby, but people hardly see her, all hurrying towards the smoke or either frozen in place, and somehow, she understands in the end it won’t matter. When Class Zero fell, when their bodies stacked within a hallway, she was right there. They’ll come for her head, find the brand upon her shoulder and know her guilt without doubts.

Emina breaks from the main lobby into the abandoned courtyard, tripping down the stairs and hitting the concrete hard enough to remember the aches below her head.

“No,” she whispers, struggling to rise, her shoulder and back throbbing. Her balance fails her, the world spinning all over again, and no matter what she tries, there’s nothing to ground her, nothing to anchor her thoughts.

This will be her death sentence. She has to run, has to escape, but even after she manages to climb to her feet she only gets as far as line of trees by the path to the arena, her knees weak beneath her. There is no surviving this, no matter that she wasn’t the one who fulfilled her mission. The Council will flay her alive, their hunts renewed for spies and traitors alike, and she will be their first success, their lamb to slaughter. She will whet their appetite, remind them how to savor the taste of blood instead of swallowing it down.

Slumping against one of the tree’s thick trunks, she sinks to her knees.

It won’t matter that she never acted against Akademia, won’t matter that she resisted as much as she dared. Her brand condemns her all the same.

Her hand finds her shoulder, fingers fisting in the filthy fabric of her uniform. If only it weren’t for her brand… She could lie, she use her history, the acquaintances she’s made, but the brand will always reveal her. If it weren’t for her brand… If she just could be free of it…

The thought persists, rolling over and over through her mind until it sticks, until the ringing in her ears sounds like that single wish, whispered again and again. Her fingers creep beneath her collar, numbly searching for her brand beneath her shirt and jacket both. If she didn’t have it, if she could strip to the waist and only worry for her modesty…

Her touch isn’t kind. Her fingers press hard, feeling the ridges just below her skin, the technology embedded in her flesh; it’s small, and just below the surface.

What would it take? To carve it from her flesh? To sever the connections between Emina Hanuharu and the facility she left behind in Milites?  It couldn’t just be the brand, it—it would have to be what’s beneath as well. Nothing could remain. _Nothing._

Her head swims with the possibilities, and all the while visions dance behind her eyelids of her without _this_ , without Milites. Could she? Could she really erase it from her flesh, cleanse her body and her life of its influence once and for all?

Her fingers grow hot, magic collecting gradually. It’s no easier to cast now, but she remembers her lesson with Seven: give a flame life and it will grow on its own. All she needs is a spark, just enough heat to start the fire, oh but her head aches, and her limbs tingle like the blood won’t flow. Not a breath reaches her lungs without her tasting ash and magic, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t, nothing does because after this, after this one thing, she’ll be free.

The second her magic ignites, the faint ringing in her ears returns as the roar of a runaway pulse and the anticipation brewing in her throat bursts from her as a shout. Her vision fetters at the edges, wavering, and she has to hold her hand in place, has to push it down so the flesh bubbles and burns away, so there’s nothing left, _nothing._

She tries not to hurt, tries to find somewhere else to be, but all of her hurts, none more than her brand, white hot. The spell flickers as her magic wanes and waxes, but she was right to choose fire. It sears until she can feel the press of metal against her fingertips, until it’s bile on her tongue instead of ash, but it’s still not enough. She can smell her own burning flesh, but it _still isn’t enough._

Reality fades. Everything fades. She’s screaming and she’s crying and there is true agony wracking every inch of her with terrible tremors that threaten to topple her, but she can’t stop until she can pull the transmitter from her flesh and crush it beneath her heel.

And then, a moment or an hour later, she catches an edge beneath her fingers and _rips_. Magic lingers in her palm, heat radiating off it, but she thrusts it into the grass to smother the flame, the movement sending shockwaves that reverberate up her arm to the crux of her pain. It looses a whimper that trails into something softer, her weeping quiet, subdued.

It hurts. It hurts so badly she thinks she might not survive, that she held the flame to her skin too long, burnt too deep, her ribs turning to boiling pitch and bleeding into her chest.

But it’s worth it. It’s all worth it. She turns her hand over, the transmitter a square no bigger than her palm, pieces of acrid flesh burnt brown still clinging to it. With this… With this she’s free. Free from Milites’ orders and Akademia’s suspicions.

Her head threatens to split at any moment, but when she attempts a healing spelling, the wave that runs through her lukewarm and ineffective. It only wearies her more, and finally spent, Emina let’s her head droop, let’s her body crumple. It hurts every time she inhales, but the grass is cool against her cheek, soft beneath her battered body.

“I’m free,” she whispers, closing her fingers around the transmitter hard enough to hear it snap.

She doesn’t move—can’t move—not even as the sun draws low against the horizon, bleeding red, not even as hands find the tender spot on the back of her neck, even as her arms are twisted behind her back, heedless of the pain.

They pull her from the ground, half-dead and wholly limp, and drag her back into Akademia, into the bowels of the school where the light can’t reach.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of buffer just in time for this particular moment! Nice!
> 
> Would love to hear what you guys thought and what you thinks gonna happen next. :3c


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, finally! Enjoy!

No one told Emina being dead would be so easy.

She floats, her mind a fog, the world around her dark and vast like a great sea. Sensation comes and goes as vague motion, like waves lapping at whatever’s been scooped out of her body and left adrift, but it’s all just subtle enough that she barely notices. She’s buoyant, weightless, and most importantly: alone. In all the sea, in all the _world_ , she’s all there is, all there ever could be.

She wants for nothing, feels nothing, and for a time, the great void swallows her without a ripple.

And then something disturbs the placid waters, and Emina knows fear.

It’s behemoth, the slide of water across its scales like metal over stone, some leviathan ascended from the depths, and it circles her, churning the waters until Emina can no longer just drift. The contours of the world become sharper, purple on the horizon and a weight threatening to pull her under.

_I’ll drown_ , she thinks, but she’s got no way to struggle, no body with which to fight the choppy waters. _I want to float, please, please… Leave me alone._

The sea serpent circles tighter and tighter, its tail lashing with a hiss, and Emina wants to cry out, but she’s got no voice, no mouth to open in a scream at the feel of a thousand teeth sinking into her. Throbbing pain shakes the world, but the serpent hisses again, and Emina--Emina _feels_.

Her _body_. It returns piece by aching piece, but the serpent samples each part returned, its teeth setting her blood to a boil, each traitorous beat of her heart forcing her to remember, squeezing her back into the body which still lives, back into the body which aches like she’s still dying, still struggling to draw breath.

_Leave me alone!_ she wants to wail. _I was nothing!_

The beast’s thick body coils around her, pulling her down into the waters and choking her. Its scales grate across her skin, inflaming every inch of her flesh, and it hisses again, right in her ear.

“ _Emina_ ,” it says, dragging her down. The serpent opens its mouth and bares its fangs, wound around her so tight her ribs are sure to snap, one after another. It rears back and then lunges, capturing its own tail in an endless loop and finally sucking her beneath the waves. “ _Emina_!”

Emina breathes out.

The serpent is gone, and so is the sea, replaced by gloom. There are vague shapes around her, a hum which runs across the whole of her, hairs at the back of her neck standing at attention.

Emina breathes in, and the weight of her body nearly crushes her.

The teeth of the serpent remain, every inch of her still feeling their prick, and it’s body coils tighter around her head, making it feel too full for her skull. Her limbs prickle pins and needles or either feel wooden, foreign, not hers at all. Taint fills her nose, but the raw burn at the back of her throat is different, a tang not belonging to the rotting of bodies.

Her chest collapses again, and she wheezes.

“ _Emina?_ ”

The sound reverberates strangely within her own mind. Her name means nothing, but the voice… The voice has meaning. The voice is familiar. Turning her head slightly, she grounds herself against something, her arm or something else, she can’t tell.

“Can you hear me?”

Things come clearer. She tries to curl her fingers, but her leaden arm resists her. She shifts again, and her head slips down onto something hard. Blood rushes down to her fingers, and with it comes the pain of circulation. Emina moans.

That scraping sound comes again, the sound of metal on stone, the sound of the serpent, and for a brief second, fear eclipses her pain and dry-mouthed confusion.

But the sea is gone, and so is the serpent, and all that’s left is her, her and this broken body she doesn’t want. Her and this familiar phantom haunting the corners of this places.

“Can you move?”

She can’t. Her tangle of limbs are useless. But she tries. She curls her fingers again, and this time they don’t oppose her more than a flare of sensation which edges on too much.

At her lack of response, the person with her curses, but she moves all her fingers and when she’s done, she wiggles all her toes. Moving is strange and new, and existence fits her poorly. She yearns for the sea with every thump of her heart, every push of blood through her veins.

“Emina, can you hear me?”

Yes. She grunts. Her throat is bone dry, and she coughs afterwards.

“You’re awake - good. I don’t have much time.”

She tries to swallow, but her mouth is just as barren. After a moment to gather herself, she grunts again.

“I don’t have much time,” the person repeats. “So listen carefully.”

She knows them. She _knows_ them.

“...Kazusa?” Her voice is a tremor, a gasp lost to the air.

The soft sound of a sigh reaches Emina. “Yes, it’s me. Can you use any magic?”

Magic. She remembers she is lightning, she is fire, she is ice, but when she reaches for the power to remake herself, all she finds is a ravenous void when her magic ought to be. She groans. It’s hunger and it’s thirst and it’s helplessness, her aching, gaunt body hollowed of the only thing she could ever truly own.

“I didn’t think so… This incense… It’s peculiar, but I’ve seen it before.” The sound of metal clicking is like the drop of a pin in the silence, and briefly, the purple haze dissolves, bleeding warmer until it’s nearly pink. “It’s an inhibitor--magical. The scent is distinctive, but I suspect the guards won’t notice this replacement.”

Metal clanks quietly, and the air changes, the burn in her throat lessening until it’s just her thirst afflicting her. Emina tries to roll over, but it takes everything she has just to push herself up, her head swelling and pounding with the effort. Over her shoulder, something pulls tight, and she hesitates.

“You can’t let them notice. They’ll come to take you to your trial, probably shackle you - dimeritium. It’s an inhibitor too, but only to the use of magic. Even with them on, you’ll still have your reserves, which will have plenty of time to replenish before then. When they come for you, you need to go with them. Emina? Can you stand?”

Emina doesn’t respond immediately. Her body is heavier than ever, but her mind clears by the second. She remembers the mission alarm, the blare of it in her ears as she fled from Kazusa, from his suicide mission. She swallows thickly, her lips pressed tight, eyes squeezed closed, trying to block out what came next.

Her shoulder itches like something rubbed raw, but she can’t feel anything save the pull of skin, too tight. Choking down her fearful breathlessness, she presses her face into the hard mattress beneath her and lets her fingers creep down her neck.

“Emina?”

She strangles a gasp at the first touch, the flesh around her brand flaking and too sensitive. The blisters weep, skin rough and raised, and she has to grit her teeth to keep from shuddering, picturing it in her mind’s eye. She knew there could be nothing left, half concussed and left without a choice, but where she expects the pain to increase as she inches closer to her brand, she loses all feeling entirely. The flesh is dry and rough, stiff like leather, flaking where her fingers brush over it. Her stomach roils, but she doesn’t feel a thing, not even when she presses into the skin to feel for the transmitter.

It’s gone, and she lets out a strangled exhale, half despair and half relief. Something warm rises in her throat, but her freedom tastes of bile, spoiled and bitter.

Withdrawing her hand, she writhes, trying to coordinate her clumsy limbs, and finally, out of breath, she pushes herself up onto her elbows and looks around.

Dark and dank close in on her like hungry predators, prepared to swallow her in one bite, only the dim hues of pink cast by a hanging light keeping them at bay. Walls can’t be kept away as easily. They surround her, block her in, her only escape barred with grates of a faintly glowing metal, and at once, Emina knows she’s in a cell.

Freedom has found her in a cell, too similar to the isolation chamber beneath Milites. She almost laughs, tears pricking at her eyes.

“Stay with me, Emina. There isn’t much time. Come on, I need to give you this.”

She cants her head, manages to catch a glimpse of him beyond the bars. Kazusa is as gaunt as she feels, all the substance carved away from him, his stooping stance betraying bruises and aches he didn’t have before. His silhouette is outlined in the faint glow of the lamp, and in the sheer lighting, his face looks swollen, his eyes pits of black. Only his shoulders remain stiff, solid, stubborn, and unbroken.

Emina reconfigures herself, rolling onto her back and hissing, the area around her brandless shoulder twinging, the smell of it wafting up to her once more. Foul enough to make her gag, she tilts her head away, hands fistsed in the sheets beneath her. Trying not to swallow her tongue, she asks, “This is…?”

“Underneath Akademia. You’re in the Dark Cells.” He waves her over, looking over his shoulder, urgent.

Emina doesn’t move. Taking a deep breath, she asks, “How did you get here?”

In the faint light, there’s a flash of teeth, the faintest chuckle. “You aren’t asking that of yourself? No, I suppose you already know… There are many passages through Akademia that people have forgotten about. Did you think my lab was the only one I knew of?”

“No,” Emina admits, raising up off her elbows, sitting on her own for the first time in what seems like an eternity. Every inch of her protests, but her mind, throbbing, urges her on, questions burning just behind her teeth. “But I didn’t think…”

“Of course not. You only thought of your mission.”

There’s a bite of bitterness in his voice, but Emina doesn’t move. “How long did you know?”

“Does it matter? I can hardly remember anyway.” He leans into the bars, exhausted. “I can’t stay to talk. The guards patrol constantly. Come here, Emina. You need this - ”

She doesn’t let him finish, her heart hammering in her chest, her gut churning with such intensity she has to grasp as her lean stomach. “You’re still helping me? Even though you know?”

“That you’re a spy? That you had a mission? Save it, Emina. We don’t have time.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Kazusa laughs. “Do you want to know? In truth, I’ve forgotten. It seems I’ve lost my mind, helping you escape. They’ll hang me with you if they discover it, but I think of my life, and you’re the only thing that comes to mind. Perhaps there was more…”

Kazusa hesitates, withdrawing slightly. He touches his face, shadowed and blank.

Emina’s voice barely rises above a whisper. “Did you think I wouldn’t do it?”

“I didn’t know your mission,” he admitts, not looking at her. “But your smile almost looked real sometimes, and then it just faded from my mind… I forgot sometimes, as the years passed, that you were the enemy.

“It just didn’t seem important.”

Trembles rock through her from her toes to the crown of her head, and Emina curls in on herself, feeling the unnaturally taut stretch of her skin. She digs her face into her knees, trying to breathe, but she just shudders out something resembling a _thank you_.

“We can talk more later. Right now, I need you to come here.”

She does as he bids, sucking in long, unsteady mouthfuls of air. Her body protests when she carefully drops her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet tingling at the sensation of cool concrete beneath her.

The world swims when she tries to rise, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her, and almost as if he knows, Kazusa begins to speak, giving her something else to focus on.

“After the explosion, security found you outside and brought you back with the other surviving victims. They treated you as best they could, but they couldn’t discern how your shoulder… That was clever, Emina. Destroy the proof. It fooled them - but not for long. I was there when the Chancellor arrived with a detail of guards. They wouldn’t say what they wanted you for, but they took you away. I’ve been looking for you since.

“It wasn’t until they announced the trial of a traitor that I thought to look here… Are you alright? A bit farther, come on. Don’t be fooled when I say trial. You’re their scapegoat for the dual-front’s disastrous failure. You were thorough with your brand, so they can’t have more than suspicions, but you’ll hang all the same. The country needs someone to blame.”

Emina sways on her feet, the short distance between the bars and the bed an insurmountable gulf. “The dual-front?”

“Without Class Zero to lead the charge, our forces on the Concordian front were wiped out. And the Milites side… Lady Caetuna was brought back alive, but there are rumors… It doesn’t matter. Not really. Just know the Council will never accept this defeat as their own.”

She put one foot in front of the other, resisting the urge to vomit by virtue of her cavernous stomach. “How long since then?”

“Six days. I’ve come twice since then, but you haven’t been awake. It was quite the risk, coming back so many times.” He smiles faintly. “But I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Reaching the bars at last, her hands grasp at the iron, brushing over Kazusa’s fingers. She slumps, and for a moment, he’s right there, touching her arm, unsure. Wheezing, she says, “You had a choice.”

He leans closer, his face coming into the light, a new scar she doesn’t recognize bisecting his left cheek. It warps his expression, and for a moment Emina doesn’t see him at all, the base of her skull tingling with something like familiarity. It passes in an instant, but she can’t drag her eyes away, fixated.

“No,” he says. “I didn’t. I feel like I’ve forgotten why, but I didn’t have a choice. Trust me, Emina.”

Trust is foreign to her. She lives in dark, damp places, scurrying out of sight and beneath the heavy treads of those more important than herself. The sun would kill her, would reveal her for what she is, and she knows trust would do the same. Trust is the thorny leash which would strangle her in her own thrashing.

But she still bows her head because somehow, she knows Kazusa is just as alone as she is.

“Alright,” she whispers. “I do.”

His hands drift down the length of her arm, finding her hand and pulling it gently away from the bars. He turns it over, palm up, and drops something small and metallic in it, closing her fingers around it. Kazusa is the warmest thing down here, in the dank and dark, like sunlight against her skin, and she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t ever drop her eyes from his.

“When they realize you’re awake, they’ll begin the trial. They need someone to take the stand, someone to persecute. You weren’t much use to them unconscious, you know.”

He laughs, quietly.

“When they come for you, they’ll shackle you - dimiterium. You won’t be able to cast spells, but it won’t drain your magic… With the incense, I expect they think you won’t have any magic to begin with. I expect they won’t think one of the lead scientists on the creation of usable dimiterium has any cause to take up your case either… Luckily, they don’t know me very well at all.

“Keep this hidden when you’re taken to your trial. It will nullify the effects of the dimiterium, but you can’t reveal this until the end… When they deliver your verdict, they’ll order you taken to the stocks - a public execution. You remember the witch hunts from before… Yes, like that. As soon as you’ve reached the doors of the courtroom, escape. It’s your best chance. Don’t try to fight, Emina. You have to run.”

Her mind whirs, remembering all the times she imagined doing just that before. “Where? Where can I go?”

He squeezes her hand. “Logryph. It’s gorgeous this time of year, I hear. The chrysanthemums are in bloom… I’ll find you there.”

“You won’t fight, will you?”

Kazusa withdraws one hand, touching the scar cutting from jaw to brow. It’s healed poorly, the edges of it red and inflamed still. “I couldn’t. They taught me alright, though why… No Emina, I won’t fight. But if we both survive, if we both escape… Logryph.”

Emina’s slim hand slides through the bars, finding his shoulder. Kazusa doesn’t flinch, and she trails her touch up to his face, to the swollen flesh and poorly knitting skin of a scar, magically inflicted. Her mouth twists up, but she maps it out, same as she did with her own.

It’s a jagged line, running up the side of his face. She follows it, brushing her thumbs over his eye, and he laughs, quietly.

“It reminds you of something, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Emina breathes. “But I don’t know what.”

“Perhaps there will be time to find out. In Logryph.”

“Yes. In Logryph… Kazusa, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Emina. I haven’t delivered you from the lions… Merely given you a chance. They think you’ll be their sacrifice, Emina. I have to go now.”

Finally, he withdraws, leaving the instrument in Emina’s hands, turning away from the lamp and beginning to limp into the darkness. Pausing, he looks over his shoulder, to the shape of her between the bars, watching his retreating siloheutte. “Good luck, Emina.”

“Good luck,” she repeats, clutching her hands close to her hollow chest, and then quietly, “ _Logryph_.”

The sound of his footsteps disappears, and Emina sinks to the ground, curling in on herself against the bars, the device cool in her palm. Magic begins to fill her, slowly, like grains of sand in an hourglass, but it returns bit by bit, her only hope at surviving this. The silence closes in around her, and she tries to hum, quietly, an ageless melody which soothed her in the depths of the facility’s rooms.

Time bleeds together, but eventually, they come for her, dragging her from the dark to face her trial.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The courtroom resembles a stock, only the noose missing from the raised platform in the center of the room. Spectators have gathered in the benches surrounding the open space where Emina’s meant to be tried, and she shies from their gazes instinctively, footsteps dragging. The guards at either arm pull her roughly along, but she can’t even raise her eyes to meet the gaze of the Chancellor and his counsellors as they bring her center-stage. 

Her knees shake, a cold bead of sweat trickling down her spine, and for a moment she can’t breathe, shaking so hard one of her escorts hisses to stop it as she holds her up before the Consortium’s banc. 

She inhales sharply and holds it, closing her eyes and stilling, her white knuckled hands clutched around the device Kazusa gave her.

“Emina Hanaharu.” Commissar Tazuru Kisga’s steely voice comes like a thump on the chest, all the air leaving Emina in a shuddering, short breath, her trembles starting all over again. “You stand accused for the acts of high treason, conspiracy to commit high treason, aiding and abetting fellow traitors of state, seventeen counts of murder, and countless more due to the compromised state of a military operation.

“Under Rubrum’s Code of War, section XIII, paragraph 3, your status as a Rubrum citizen has been revoked for this trial, and you will be judged as an enemy of the state and therefore forfeit the right to counsel. Do you understand?”

Emina doesn’t. She’s played this situation out in her head a million times, but in all her wildest nightmares, she never felt the weight of so many gazes upon her, each one driving her further into fight or flight, her chest too small to hold her lungs, her pulse pounding in her ears. 

When she doesn’t respond immediately, the guard on her right tightens his grip on her arm, and as though responding to the crack of a whip, she jerks her head in his direction, wide eyed, and stutters out, “N-no ma’am…I’m n-not sure - ”

Commissar Kisga looks down over the thin rim of her glasses, cold gaze cutting Emina off mid sentence. She shies again, but there’s nowhere to run, no corner to back into and cower. 

“And what is it you don’t understand?”

Emina swallows thickly. “M-ma’am - ”

From his seat, Commandant Suzuhisa Higato gives a sound of irritation. “Commissar Kisga will be referred to by her title.”

Her shoulder aches and pulses, the open blisters around the dead flesh throbbing as though prodded. Bile roils in her stomach, the meager meal she was given as the court was convened threatening to rise in her throat.

A million eyes watch her nod weakly. “Commissar… I… I haven’t done anything to-to be stripped of my citizenship…”

The Commissar clicks her tongue. “That is the matter we have gathered to determine. Should you be found innocent of the crimes against you, your citizenship may be returned.”

Kazusa’s words filter through her racing thoughts:  _ Don’t be fooled into thinking this is a real trial. You’re their scapegoat.  _

Emina strangles a sob, the sound coming out as a soft whimper, but she closes her mouth and nods again, trying to focus on Kazusa’s words, his plan, anything to escape this. Briefly, the memory of their last lunch together flashes through her mind, and she grasps its tightly, trying to hold on. Quietly, she says, “I understand.”

“And how do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

The panel of judges all shift, the spectators rousing at her back. “Then we’ll begin.”

The platform at the center of the courtroom puts her well in sight of every person in the room, every general she’s been dodging since she was twelve, but when she’s at last pushed into her seat, her legs feel like they might cry of thanks, knees and thighs pressed tight together. 

With her denial of the charges, the Commissar begins with a more elaborate explanation of her crimes, stating dates and names and the article under which such a thing is defined and outlawed. Most of it sounds like white noise, Emina staring straight ahead, trying very hard not to look at anything or anyone, hands kept from wringing only by the slip of metal between them. 

It’s only when the name of her co-conspirator - Jeralt - comes up that something of substance occurs to her, a flicker of recognition blossoming among the fear. Arlene, the lunchroom guard, appears in her mind’s eye, the nagging tug of association with the name Jeralt encompassing her thoughts for a split second. 

She remembers Arlene’s gun, remembers how she smiled when they spoke, and the thought of seeing her now, of looking out into the crowd and finding her face among the masses makes her sink into her chair, wanting nothing more than to vanish, to cease to exist at all. 

The names of those killed in the explosion are called next, none of them triggering even a hint of remembrance. Missing from that list are the names of Class Zero, their faces swimming in Emina’s mind. 

A new spike of fear runs her through, the thought that they might be involved, that they might be called as witnesses - or executioners - against her. The explosion which rocked the school is fuzzy, more a mix of fear and panic and desperation than true, concrete memories, but if they survived… 

Emina chances a glance at the banc, finding seven figures all staring her down, the highest among them the Chancellor. The Head of Sorcery seat is vacant, and hope and despair war in Emina’s gut, trying to decipher the meaning there. 

“ - The following is surveillance of the attack which crippled Akademia prior to the mobilization for the dual-front.”

A holographic projection opens adjacent to the Consortium’s bench, bisected into two side-by-side videos displaying the hallway leading to Class Zero’s lecture hall from different angles. A timestamp runs in the corner of each, and it only takes a half second for Emina to appear on screen in a dead sprint, stopping short twenty meters from the double doors. 

Her shoulder throbs, the sight of herself there surreal, dream-like, her mouth falling open as she watches herself, the terror in her own eyes filling her all over again. In disarray, panting, sweating, she is the picture of alarm, the definition of horror. 

Commandant Higato’s voice shreds her fixation on the video. “Is there a reason you were here at this time, Ms. Hanaharu? You should have been reporting to your mission bay.”

Emina’s mouth opens as though to speak, but no matter how long she stares at the screen and digs through the tangle of her memories, she can’t find an answer. “I-I’m not sure.”

Provost Tikese leans forward in his seat. “You don’t know?”

The only thing she can recall is Kazusa’s face, and her chest tightens, lips pressing tight together. At her silence, a murmur rises among the spectators, and she blinks hard, fighting back tears as two other figures appear on the screen.

Seven she recognizes, but the other person, who Commissar Kisga identifies as her co-conspirator, is unknown to her. 

Seeing herself speaking to them is numbing. It goes on like a movie, like the person standing there, inching back from Seven isn’t her. A jolt of surprise runs through her magic blooms between them on the screen, the footage pausing for the Commandant to detail the spell used and how it constitutes an assault against a member of Rubrum’s Special Forces. 

“Why did you attack this cadet?” Cadetmaster Aufmachyt asks. 

Emina looks at the freeze frame of her face, the terror written out in her expression. “To escape,” she feels herself say, no more than a whisper. 

The Commissar gives a sharp sigh. “Louder, please.”

“To escape,” Emina manages, clearing her throat. “I was scared.” 

“Of what?” 

“I…” She hesitates, biting her tongue as the words _ I don’t know _ rush to escape. She takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t lessen the burn in her chest. Her vision clouds, the manacles around her wrists rattling as she raises her hands to wipe at her eyes. “I think… Of her.”

The Consortium all turns, even the Chancellor, and looks at the screen at the same time. Chancellor Chival has done nothing but observe thus far, but finally he asks, “Of this cadet?”

Emina nods, closing her eyes and looking down at her feet. 

“Why would you be scared of a cadet you yourself have trained? …Ms. Hanaharu, did you hear me?”

Cadetmaster Aufmachyt repeats the question, but Emina doesn’t raise her head, trying to bury the sound of his voice, the presence of the guards at her shoulders, the generals and leaders all gathered to watch her burn. They decided her guilt already, have condemned her with their eyes a thousand times since she was brought into the courtroom. The knowledge is suffocating, and the tears collecting at her lashes begin to slip down her cheeks, chin tucked to her chest, the beginnings of sobs escaping from her lips.

_ It isn’t fair _ , she thinks, muffling the uncontrollable gasps and stuttering inhales into her hands. 

She doesn’t remember why she was there, doesn’t know this Jeralt or even if she ever did. For years she’s been perfect, never betrayed a single secret or acted against Rubrum, yet even so - even though she burned her connection to Milites from her very flesh to be free of it - she is guilty here.  

The courtroom goes quiet for a moment, her rapid, short breaths the only sound among so many. She tries to tamp it down, hold herself together, but even squeezing Kazusa’s gift and pretending she’s anywhere but here can’t stop the rising tides of despair in her chest. 

“Ms. Hanaharu,” the Commandant says. “Answer the question.”

Emina lets out a few more unsteady breaths, trying to force her voice to work, but she can only shake her head, her sobs coming louder. There will be no mercy for her here. 

A sigh. “Then we will proceed.”

The sound of the trial continuing doesn’t fade, not entirely, but it’s a language Emina no longer understands, her thoughts an island, untouchable by the world around her. The tears continue to fall, but she knows, vaguely, that they will dry eventually, that before this trial has ended she’ll have long exhausted her capacity to even cry. 

It almost makes her wish to be done with this sham, to accept a noose in place of the fear that sinks into the marrow of her. If she stops them now, uses her voice to confess, it will be over, and she might return to that void of nonexistence and never leave it again. Yet for all she she fears these people, this place, she fears dying even more. 

So she sits, and after a time, she does stop crying, staring down at her hands in her lap and imagining the shape of the device clutched so tightly within. Emina breathes in. She breathes out. 

She remembers the point of this trial was never an acquittal, and doesn’t stop breathing. 

“ - Collected by Sorcery before her incident, this is footage of Ms.Hanaharu’s private quarters. Here, she is unaware she’s being recorded, which is permissible under the Rubrum Code of War, section XVI, paragraph 28.”

Her eyes drift upward for a moment, watching the screen as a still shot of her appears, her room dark and full of shadows, her back to the camera. On her shoulder, she sees her brand, the sight of it forcing her flesh to remember the searing heat of digging it out. She almost touches her shoulder to confirm its truly gone, but the manacles keep her from reaching, and for a moment all eyes return to her. 

The Provost narrows his eyes. “Upon examination, that same shoulder was found to be recently  _ burned _ . There’s no report of such a thing happening in battle, and as such, it is our belief the injury was self-inflicted as a means to conceal the proof of allegiance to Milites. Ms. Hanaharu, do you have anything to say?”

For a moment, she wants to say she did it to be innocent, to not be condemned simply by being alive. But her mouth is full of cotton, and she knows nothing will help her here. 

She shakes her head and returns to staring at her hands. The case continues without her. 

She doesn’t even bother to wonder how Sorcery got a camera into her room.

There are no windows in the courtroom with which to judge the passing of time, and the bright, unerring fluorescent lights above Emina offer no clues. The people around are getting restless, and she knows by her hunger that it must have been some time since they began. 

Emina picks up snippets of the proceedings, hears the miniscule infractions spaced over a decade of her service to Akademia. Each one caused her such grief at the time, sure a single misstep is all it would take to reveal her, but now she is impassive, a deep exhaustion settling in her limbs while her fear retreats to her stomach, smouldering there. 

Kazusa was right about the incense. Without it, her magic has replenished, and as tight as she clings to his anti-dimiterium mechanism, she can’t feel the numbness that she knows she should. 

When the verdict comes, she will wait until they take her out of the courtroom and then strike, and for the first time, she will be the enemy the Consortium paints her as. Until then, it’s all she can do to devote her thoughts to preparing, forcing herself back into focus to roll her shoulders, to flex her calves. 

_ Logryph _ , she reminds herself, listening as the Commissar adds what sounds like a finishing touch to the case against her.  _ We’re going to meet in Logryph where the chrysthanthemums are in bloom… _

“Ms. Hanaharu,” the Commissar says. “Do you have anything more to say in your defense?”

Emina hesitates. Then, wearily: “I’m not guilty.”

Someone sighs, but the Commissar only says, “Your defense has been heard. We will now convene to determine your innocence or guilt. Those in favor of acquitting Emina Hanaharu, say aye.”

No one moves or speaks. 

“Those who believe she is guilty of the crimes, say aye.”

One by one, each of the Consortium speaks their agreement. Last is the Chancellor himself, who glances down at Emina as though searching for something. His is the only vote which truly counts, able to overturn even the seven votes of the Consortium with just his pardon alone. 

He says, “Aye.” 

_ Guilty.  _

She sucks in a deep breath, her hands trembling in spite of herself. 

“By unanimous vote barring the absent Head of Sorcery, this court finds the defendant, Emina Hanaharu, guilty. For your crimes against the holy state of Rubrum, your name will be struck from the records and you will be executed and your body burned.”

People rise to their feet, and even without looking over her shoulder, Emina knows they are staring at her, a celebration of the justice meted. When she turns to face them, they will see only a convicted traitor, damned to die. 

She calls on her magic, her limbs tingling with it, the dimiterium useless, and doesn’t resist as she’s pulled to her feet. 

“May the Crystal have mercy on your soul,” Chancellor Chival says. 

Emina turns, counting each step as she’s taken down the aisle between the rows of spectators, her eyes straight ahead, her mind churning with tactics, callous with animal efficiency. If she escapes there will be more time for tears, but now she is empty, a vessel to move and fight and  _ live _ . 

Three steps from the courtroom’s exit, the double doors swing open, ornate handles cracking against the walls. Emina’s heart stutters to a stop, startling hard enough to flinch away from the figure that nearly bowls her and her escorts over. 

Her blood turns to ice as she meets violet eyes, retreating back two steps before her escorts can take her by the arms, holding her in place as she recognizes the woman before her. 

“Emina!” Seven’s face opens in surprise. 

For the first time since waking up in the Dark Cells, Emina resists. 

Lightning explodes in the courtroom, pillars of it crashing down around Emina, her guards leaping away in fright. Those in the stands leap to their feet, screams erupting, but Seven moves on instinct, jumping back and raising her hand to the air as a lightning strike descends upon her. It splits upon a shield born of magic, shooting off into the stands in flashes that disorient. 

Emina’s dimiterium cuffs ice and shatter, and she pulls flames to her open palms, retreating away from Seven, from the blade which will open her pale throat. At her flanks, people move, weapons appearing in glimmers of light, and Emina feels her heart jump into her throat, panic seizing her, the screams for action all mingling with the sound of her pulse in her ears. 

She draws upon all of her magic at once, flames swirling around her with blistering heat, every inhale burning her lungs, a whirlwind of fire whipping around her, growing to reach the ceiling. It’s close enough to make her skin itch, to make her shoulder ache, but if it falls, so will she. 

Emina feeds it everything she has, hears the incomprehensible tangle of voices rising with the flames, her own among them, tears rushing to her eyes. 

And then her magic is gone as if taken on the wind. 

The fires fizzle out, and Emina is left there with nothing to protect her, panting and sweating, confusion rooting her to the spot. The area around her is scorched black, spectators pressed with their backs to the walls, all the sound in the room stolen along with her magic. 

She looks down at her hands, but there isn’t even a spark. 

The sweet fragrance of poppy drifts in through the opens doors, and looking up, Emina’s stare fixes on Seven and then follows her gaze to the woman stepping into the courtroom behind her. 

Arecia Al-Rashia breathes out a stream of smoke as she enters the room, her golden eyes trained on Emina and Emina alone. She is liquid - _ smoke _ . She rides on a breath, scarves flowing around her ethereally, every movement smooth. If Emina reached to touch her, she would find nothing of substance, yet with her presence, the room is impossibly full, straining just to contain her. 

For one second, Emina doesn’t more, spell-bound. 

Then: “Detain her!”

Something hard collides with her back, and she shrills with pain, wrestling to free her arms from a solid grip, crying out in desperation. They’ll kill her. They’ll use Seven to do it.

“Enough of that.” 

The voice commands total obedience, and all at once, the room stills. Even the person holding Emina - even  _ Emina _ \- freeze where they are. Again, she finds her eyes drawn to the Head of Sorcery, who regards them idly. 

Acutely, Emina feels that if she demanded the world stop revolving, it would obey. 

Setting a hand on Seven’s shoulder, Dr. Arecia addresses her daughter. “I suspect we’ve arrived late, darling.”

“Arecia!” It’s not the sudden shout which evokes a bone-deep surprise, but the fact that anyone can speak at all. Behind Emina, Commandant Higato screams, “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Mildly, Arecia raises her pipe to her lips and takes another drag. “I’ve come to sit in judgement of Emina Hanaharu.” Her eyes flicker to Emina again, the weight of that gaze immeasurably heavier than the rest of the room’s combined. “It occurs to me that I’ve missed a great deal of her trial, but I intend to be quick. I find her innocent of all charges against her.”

“The verdict has been decided already, Arecia! You forfeited - ”

Chancellor Chival doesn’t let the Commissar finish. “I revoke my earlier guilty verdict. I also find Emina Hanaharu innocent.”

Emina turns, not believing her ears, and sees the Consortium on their feet, each face struck with the same astonishment. The silence shatters as a roar of disapproval overtakes the courtroom, spectators and Consortium heads alike adding their voices to the chaos. 

“Chancellor Chival!”

The sound is dizzying, the smell of poppy turning all Emina’s thoughts to air, and she sways on the spot, held up only by the grip holding her arms behind her.

The hands on her wrists come away, and in the midst of the disorder, Emina turns, coming face to face with Seven, her features stern. Her fingers are iron on the shoulder of the woman behind Emina, and it’s only when she turns her gaze on Emina that she seems to soften, like coaxing a wounded animal. 

“We need to go,” she says, so gentle, so urging. 

Emina blinks, but she can’t string together words. 

When Seven touches her elbow, Emina flinches away from her.

“With her acquittal, I will take her into my care now,” Arecia says, her voice clear among the others. Her gaze fixes on Emina. “Come.”

She moves. 

The Consortium screams from their banc, but Emina is half in a daze, moving as though by witchcraft, compelled by spell and sorcery. Taking up a place at Arecia’s side, she sees Seven flank her other side, and together, the three of them turn and step through the open doors, leaving the courtroom behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i remembered i wasn't done writing this story for the first time in like three months and wrote this in the span of four hours. we're back in business, folks.


	7. Chapter 7

Beyond the courtroom, soldiers and cadets alike gather to watch Emina’s final death march. They line up just outside the doors, waiting to see her chained and collared, dragged from her righteous verdict to whatever public execution the Consortium has prepared. Like hounds, they prick to attention, waiting for the scraps of her suffering, the proof of her fear, gorging themselves on it until they must inevitably forget, until the memory of her vanishes, never there to begin with.

So when she drifts from the courtroom, free of shackles and shame, led not by chains but a farce of volition, even her dulled senses perceive the shift among them.

As if trapped in a haze of compliance and calm, Emina trails after Arecia Al-Rashia, leashed and muzzled by the tranquility rising from her pipe in curls of smoke. It pulls her along without physical restraint, her eyes fluttering as though in a dream, and she only gives passing notice to the murmurs closing in around her, growing in volume. 

“Mother.” Seven’s voice triggers something base within her, but it’s whisked away by the smoke crowding her skull, forcing out thoughts before they can form. “They’re…”

Arecia clicks her tongue, her heels snapping against the tile a touch faster. “Be quick, darling.”

Emina finds herself barely keeping pace as they erupt from the court block, the door handles banging against the walls from the force of their opening. Arecia immediately begins down the steps towards the path below, but Seven hesitates, waiting at the threshold as Emina plods through after them. 

The door begins to swing back, but Seven catches it, holding it open for Emina, who stops beside her, her lips tugging into a smile automatically. 

It sours Seven’s expression, her gaze snapping away. A hand finds Emina’s shoulder, but flinches away as though burned. “Mother!”

From the base of the stairs, Arecia sucks at the end of her pipe, blowing another cloud of smoke that seems to beckon Emina even without words. She obeys, hurrying down the steps to stand at Arecia’s side. There, slender fingers drum across the notches of her spine at the base of her neck, the steady pressure of a hand there somehow comfortable. 

“A temporary precaution, darling.” Her voice rings, and even if Arecia doesn’t look at her while she’s speaking, every word seems meant for her, encompassing all that exists in this world. “Don’t fret now - I’ll dispel it as soon as we’ve escaped the crowds. Lingering here long would be unwise.”

Seven lets the door shut, but it takes a long moment for her to begin down the stairs after them. At her side, Emina notices the scorch marks on her jacket idly, seeing without understanding. 

“She can walk, Mother. She’ll be able to follow us.”

Arecia considers, a flash of her teeth around her pipe. “Do you think things will be different because she has no magic?”

“If she’s innocent, she deserves this no more than being kept chained or bound… Please, Mother.”

A sigh, light and airy. It sends tingles racing up Emina’s spine to the weight of that hand - until it moves, reaching for Seven with utmost care. As if by habit, Seven leans into the touch as it traces across her cheek, but her eyes remain firm on Arecia, mouth set stubbornly. 

“Oh darling,” Arecia hums. “Your kindness doesn’t befit such a broken world. I pray you reserve your mercy for those who won’t return it with cruelty… And that those who observe it will not mistake it for weakness.”

That golden gaze shifts from Seven to Emina. On her next inhale, instead of poppy, smog clouds Emina’s throat, sharp and stinging, her eyes watering from just the smell. It teases a cough from her suddenly dry throat, her head spinning with vertigo as though she’s just stood up too quickly. Emina blinks hard, swaying on the spot, and touches her temple, her mouth full of cotton. 

“Oh,” she breathes. The ground seems to have been tugged out from under her, the weight of each limb so acute she can barely withstand it. 

The scent of flowers in bloom reaches her first, surprise ripping through her as her gaze slants toward the courtyard in the distance, the well worn path leading right to the heart of Akademia. It glows with warmth in the coming dusk, the sky above bleeding red-violet, specks of twinkling light forming constellations to adorn the coming dusk. 

Transfixed, a sense of wonder hums through her. She shouldn’t be seeing this sky, shouldn’t be breathing in the scent of flowers. If she’s not mid-flight, chased by magic and steel, she ought not to be outside at all, but here she stands, feet rooted to the ground, her lips quivering at the sight of the sky above her, gorgeous and endless. 

“Emina?”

Emina’s blurring vision flickers down. Pale fringe and violet eyes stir something hidden in her bones, in her marrow. It rises gradually, no haze to tamp it down, and all the breath leaves Emina in a wheeze, battered from her lungs as though by a blow. 

Fight or flight fills in the blanks in her understanding, swallows the miracle of her existence beneath such a sky. 

“ _ Seven _ .”

The courtroom rushes back to her, the volley of magic meant to crush, to burn, but none of it seems to exist in her now. Just like in the Dark Cells, she’s empty, completely depleted. 

She takes a step back, eyes cutting to the movement beside Seven, the tap of a pipe, ash falling to the ground. Before her stands Arecia Al-Rashia, Head of Sorcery, Mother of Monsters, and - her liberator. 

Emina’s chest aches with too many breaths taken too quickly, but she retreats back another step. 

“Wait,” Seven says, throwing her hands up, palms offered for inspection. She holds no weapon, but magic blooms from nothing, thought made into reality. “Not that way. The court block is behind you - ”

Twisting over her shoulder, Emina finds the truth in Seven’s words, the steps of the block rising to intricate golden doors emblazoned with the Phoenix of Rubrum. Thoughts rush and swirl endlessly, but one thing remains despite the dizzying tides of questions: 

“I’m - free?”

Arecia Al-Rashia gives the faintest of smiles from behind Seven. “You have been acquitted, yes.” 

Emina is breathless, but she still manages: “ _ Why _ ?”

“Are you guilty?” Arecia turns slightly, setting a hand on Seven’s shoulder, who regards Emina with uncertainty. “My daughter seemed to think not.”

Emina wants to ask it again, wants to drag the motive from Seven until the truth lies bloody and bare upon the floor between them - yet, there are no words more potent than Seven’s gaze. For the first time, she sees past the fangs, the hunter’s eyes, assessing, keen. Seven’s mouth opens as though for words and then closes, a line that betrays all the things she doesn’t know how to say. 

_ Pity. _ Emina’s lips quiver again, her heart pounding in her chest. 

Pity was never even a glimmer of a chance, all mercy denied for the brand imprinted on her shoulder. Unbidden, she finds her fingers creeping toward the dead flesh where the proof of her treachery was spelled out in black and red. 

Something nearly pained crosses Seven’s expression. “Our mission was to investigate you - but I realized too late you weren’t what we expected.” 

_ What we expected _ could have a million meanings, but Emina understands implicitly. 

“There were enough casualties in the attack… And in the battle which followed.” Guilt churns amongst the tempest of emotions encapsulating Seven’s expression. Violet eyes meet Emina’s. “Another death won’t change that.”

Emina feels faint. That Seven’s intention was -  _ could be _ \- salvation instead of damnation… She never even considered it, but the possibility bares itself now, impossible to ignore. 

“You… Think I’m innocent?”

Seven’s lips purse into a firm line. 

Instead, it’s Arecia who answers with, “A question for another time, perhaps.” Her eyes are set upon the doors behind Emina. “I fear our time here is short. We’ll want to be gone before they organize themselves.” 

The threat of the Consortium bursting from the doors to rescind her acquittal is enough to make Emina nod, following after Arecia and Seven as they turn, but it can’t erase the nagging thought: Seven didn’t answer her. 

She gnaws her lower lip, watching Seven’s back, and wonders at the implications of her rescue at the hands of someone who doesn’t believe she’s innocent. 

They follow the path from the court block all the way to the steps of the school, and still there are no lynch mobs with torches at their backs. They pass the shaded spot beneath a tree which Emina recognizes as the one where she burned the transmitter from her flesh, and as if in recollection, her skin tingles. There’s no blackened earth to mark it, no lingering scent of acrid smoke, not even the scrap of metal she dug from her shoulder, but she remembers it all the same.

Shivering, she shuts her eyes to the hazy memories, trying to banish them from her mind. When she opens her eyes again, Akademia rises up before the three of them. As Arecia begins up toward the main doors, Emina’s steps stutter to a halt, hesitation rising up in her. 

Lingering at the base of the steps, she asks, “Where are we going?”

Arecia and Seven stop short before the double doors of the school, but Arecia answers first, easy, unconcerned, “My office is a bulwark against all forms of magic and might. I suspect you will appreciate its security so soon after your controversial acquittal.” 

The Tower of Sorcery conjures memories of fear, an animal avoidance bred into her bones after the first rounds of witch hunts conducted by Sorcery for traitors. That it could be a sanctuary doesn’t fit, her gut roiling with the beginnings of nausea at just the thought of going there. 

Like an open book, Seven reads the hesitation oozing from every joint. “Just for now - Mother, she can leave whenever she wants, right?”

Arecia nods, her scarves catching on the wind. “My intent had always been to allow her to stay as long as she wants.” 

Her thoughts flicker to Kazusa for the first time. He expected her to flee, expected to follow her.  _ Logryph _ , she remembers,  _ where the chrysthanthemums are in bloom.  _

Did he leave already? Is he waiting to hear the commotion of an escaped traitor? She wants to run to him, to find him, to leave together and never return to this school, but a kernel of doubt festers into nightmarish proportions - if even Arecia and Seven expect her to need protecting, would she survive turning it down to search for Kazusa?

“I… I need to find someone…” she says, not meeting either of their gazes. 

“There will be plenty of time for that,” Arecia says, touching Seven’s shoulder again. “I suspect Seven would even be willing to help you. But you’re Rubrum’s most notorious traitor, and I imagine there will be few who rejoice your pardon.” 

Torrents of faces all contorted with hatred race through Emina’s mind. She swallows thickly and says, “A… A night. Perhaps just one night.”

It’s as much a reassurance to herself as it is a declaration of intent to Arecia and Seven. Seven nods, something uneasy clouding her expression, but Arecia merely turns, leading the way up the steps and inside. 

Emina’s throat constrict as she steps into the empty main lobby, moving like a shadow trying to hide in plain sight behind Seven. Whispering, she asks, “Where is everyone?”

Without looking back, Seven says, “The dual front was a disaster. Those who survived are wounded or assisting the wounded.” Seven’s voice betrays a line of tension, a nerve plucked raw. “Without our class to assist on the Concordian front, the dragons wiped out our forces.” 

Kazusa said something similar. “And the Milites front…”

Arecia gives a breath of laughter, bringing her pipe to her lips and taking a long drag. “An utter failure.” 

The questions which rise at the humor Arecia finds in such a thing abate when Emina realizes where they’re going. They head straight for the teleporter, and fear rises up in Emina even despite being here with the Head of Sorcery herself. 

_ It will let you pass _ , she tells herself, closing her eyes and stepping onto the pad, flanked by Arecia and Seven.  _ It won’t flay you alive. It won’t. _

Trust isn’t the right word for what she feels for the women with her. They are dangerous, and they could open her throat with hardly a thought, let her blood stain the steps of Akademia - but they don’t. Whatever their motives, they delivered her from an execution and now offer sanctuary. If they mean her harm, she can’t determine what or why. 

A surge of power rushes across her skin, and despite her full body flinch, there’s no pain, a weightless sensation swallowing her and then dumping her back into gravity’s clutches. She doesn’t realize she was holding her breath until she opens her eyes and finds herself at the top of the Tower of Sorcery. 

The walls glow with magical lamps, warm and welcoming, and even without approaching the double doors leading to Arecia’s office, the vestibule sings with the charms and barriers worked into them. 

Wrought of iron and silver and slivers of brass or gold, Emina knows at once: no matter what spells she flung at those doors, they would never fall. 

“This way,” Arecia says, leading the way. 

The doors pulse with magic the closer they get, and by the time Emina is standing before them, her teeth hum with it, the constant ebb across her skin like the ticking of a clock. No one ought to be able to so much as touch it, but Arecia’s fingers settle upon the handle with great familiarity. 

“ _ Arecia! _ ”

The shout comes from behind them, the pop of ozone signaling a teleporter in use. Emina whips around expecting the Consortium, expecting guards, expecting anyone but Rubrum’s most ancient l’Cie. 

Lady Caetuna staggers from the pad, her face pale and sickly, sweat sticking her bangs to her forehead. Her first step is heavy, her second sending her slumping against the nearby table bearing tomes and trinkets, but her gaze never falters, emerald eyes cutting through Arecia. 

Emina feels herself step back, shrinking back in the face of such animal rage. Her animosity bleeds from her, refined by her desperation, by the way she’s not cloaked in elegance, but bloody robes belonging to the medical department.

Panting, she lurches forward, clutching some wound which should not exist on her, which should not exist upon a l’Cie, not with the magic granted to them by the Crystal. “What - ” she hisses between her teeth. “Is the meaning of this!”

In the face of such open wrath, Arecia doesn’t flinch, regarding Caetuna mildly from over her spectacles. Seven, on the other hand, moves with such rapid fluidity that by the time Emina blinks,  she’s put herself between Arecia and Lady Caetuna, her stance wide and solid. 

It’s a warning, clear enough to break even Caetuna’s fixation on Arecia. 

“Ignorant child,” she sneers, forcing herself to take another step, pain furrowing her brow, making her grit her teeth. “Remove yourself from my sight at once, and I will overlook your interference - ”

“Caetuna.” Arecia’s lyrical voice cuts her off, the crack of a whip to a well trained beast. “Be wary of who you threaten.” 

“You shouldn’t be here, Lady Caetuna,” Seven adds, not missing a beat. “Your wound - ”

As though rallied by the reminder of her injury, Caetuna clutches at her chest, cruel fingers dug into the fabric of her shift. “Is the product of grievous treason meted by  _ your hand _ !”

Arecia only smiles. “Your accusations grow wilder as the years past, Caetuna. Seven - I believe Lady Caetuna is in need of assistance returning to the medical bay… Would you escort her?”

For the first time, Seven seems to remember Emina, looking back to her and then to Arecia, and Caetuna closes the distance between them with a lunge. Clawing at Seven’s shoulder for support, her joints stiffen, and she doesn’t make it past her, but her eyes lock onto Arecia, a frenzied madness where there is usually nothing but apathy. 

“What game is this, Arecia?! You incite doom upon Rubrum - do not pretend you did not know our armies would march upon the enemy stripped of their teeth! You invited our defeat by not stopping it, and now you invite our destruction!”

As though winded, Lady Caetuna bows her head, sweat glistening on her flesh, her limbs trembling to support her. Even Seven hesitates in throwing her off, a solid hand at her shoulder meant only to bar her progression, to hold her where she stands. 

Arecia regards her with surety, solid as a laid anchor even through Caetuna’s sea of allegations; if there is guilt to be found in her, it dwells nowhere Emina can observe. After a moment of consideration, Arecia crosses the gulf between them with long, steady strides, moving like silk, like smoke. 

Beneath the weight of her attention, Caetuna wavers, her mouth falling open as Arecia takes her by the chin tilting her head back so their gazes level. Her white robe begins to spot red between her callous fingers.

When Arecia leans in, Emina almost mistakes it for a kiss. From behind, it nearly looks it. 

Yet Arecia’s voice creeps across her flesh, too soft to distinguish word from word but electric enough to feel, even as a whisper. Seven twists her head, right there, but no understanding marks her expression, her brow furrowed, eyes flickering between the two of them. 

For a long moment, the room stills, unnatural stillness sinking into Emina’s joint, and it’s not until her chest begins to burn that she realizes she’s holding her breath. Arecia pulls away at last, saying, “Seven, return her to the medical bay. Emina and I will await your return here.”

Without waiting, she turns back to Emina, rooted to the spot by the doors to her office. 

“No!” Caetuna seems to surge, but Seven is there, refusing her passage. “Arecia! You  _ will _ answer me! Why has the Crystal abandoned me?! What have you _ done _ ?!”

Arecia doesn’t look back, setting both hands upon her door and pushing them open. Emina can’t turn from such despair so easily, her eyes transfixed upon Lady Caetuna, upon the desperation etched into her face. Caetuna shakes from weakness and injury both, blood staining her shirt the more she struggles against Seven. Biting her lip, Emina looks away, chasing after Arecia with quick steps and following her past the doors. 

Behind them, the doors shut of their own accord, groaning closed over the sound of Caetuna’s protests until at last they click, all the sound extinguishing. 

The air within is stale and cloying, the scent of poppy thick enough to choke, and Emina’s eyes water reflexively as she stares at the doors which could lead to another world altogether. Out there, she knows Caetuna and Seven remain, but from here, all the universe might consist of only the two of them. 

Amber hues adorn the office, dark mahogany inlaid with gold reaching up towards the ceiling, stacked with books so ancient Emina can’t even read the script upon their spines. Among the shelves, trinkets of silver and brass spin and twirl, miracles born of the mix of science and magic, and at the peak of the bookcases, the ceiling curves above, a mosaic worked into the stone, ebony and amythest depicting some archaic, beastial creature among the stars. 

To her right, a door to some unseen chamber opens between two bookshelves, darkened with disuse.

Arecia clicks her tongue, drawing Emina’s attention. She circles the sitting area below the mosaic to reach the impressive desk at the rear of the office and takes her place leaning against it. Saying nothing, the offer to sit is offered wordlessly with a gesture of her pipe over the chairs arranged before her. 

Alone, Emina can’t seem to find her voice, slinking towards one of the chairs and glancing back over her shoulder. 

As though reading her mind, Arecia asks, “Do you pity her? Oh, she would seethe to know it.”

“I’ve never seen a l’Cie wounded,” Emina admits. 

“The Crystal’s power refuses them injury or illness, yet - ” Blowing a stream of smoke, Arecia seems to consider the shapes they take. “The Vermillion Bird Crystal offers her nothing. Peculiar, isn’t it?”

Emina hesitates by one of the chairs before taking a seat, and Arecia takes her silence as agreement.

“I’ve seen nothing like it,” Arecia continues. “In this one week, the world has changed inexorably. Milites and Concordia batter Rubrum’s lines, pushing closer each day; Zhuyu has disappeared without a trace; and dear Lady Caetuna has been all but rejected by the Crystal which claimed her.”

She inhales deeply of her pipe, her stare falling squarely upon Emina. In the wisps of smoke, her words take form: “Travesty upon travesty, and all of them centered around you, Emina Hanaharu.”

Emina stiffens instinctively, sussing out the accusation there. Her hands clasp one another, wringing, and she looks away, avoiding Arecia’s eyes. “I… I haven’t done anything... I  _ swear _ .”

Arecia gives something of a laugh. “But you have. There is no steady course to follow now - even I have no bearings here. The possibilities which arise from such disorientation… I wonder where you will lead us.”

There’s a certain hunger to Arecia’s words, and when Emina chances a look, those golden eyes are starved, devouring every detail, recording each twist of her hands. Her heart picks up, remembering who this is, remembering that Arecia Al-Rashia may offer her shelter, but that act does not change her, does not make her more or less of what she is. 

Curiosity burns through her veins, engulfs her completely. Emina’s heard whispers, reads the implications in making weapons of those she would call children, those she would coddle so dearly.

To feel Arecia’s interest upon her now, where no one may interfere, rouses the vestiges of panic in her weary bones. 

“I…”

Arecia doesn’t wait for her to find the words. “This world may still bear fruit, and I believe you are the key to its nurturing. If so, there can be no one other than you to command my children.”

With a start, Emina’s head jerks up. Arecia only smiles faintly. 

“The position of their commander has recently opened, you see, and I’m in dire need of someone to guide them, to remain close and instruct. Your influence may lead them to heights even Kurasame could not achieve.”

A tingle runs up to the base of Emina’s skull, the vague sensation of a dream’s remembrance. Sickness knots her guts, and her answer comes instinctively, immediate: “No.”

It’s out so quickly, Emina almost doesn’t realize she’s said it. Unaffected, Arecia blinks at her, asking, “You won’t reconsider?”

Emina’s hands wring harder, whole body screaming for escape. This was meant to be her sanctuary, but now it closes in around her, Arecia’s gaze stealing all the air in the room. 

Pushing off the desk, the poppy at the end of Arecia’s pipe smoulders as she inhales, and the smoke blown from those thin lips curls strangely, reaching for Emina as though sentient. It stings her eyes, the sweet taste of it sticking in her throat, but she can’t turn away because Arecia is right, regarding Emina over the rim of her glasses. 

A look beckons her rise, and trembling, Emina obeys, gaze slanting away from Arecia. 

A slender finger finds Emina’s chin, tilting her head back so her gaze can’t retreat to her feet. Emina’s chest clenches, those golden eyes trapping her like a fly in amber. 

“My children are in need of a hand to guide them,” Arecia says, her voice ringing through Emina’s thoughts. “The pieces have just gathered, but already they’ve been left alone. And you - you are insignificant on this board, not even a pawn, yet you are heralded as the woman who brought Rubrum to its knees.”

The words tingle at the base of her skull, each one perfect, lacking in nothing save substance, gone every time Emina tries to seize them. Her eyes flutter, lips parting in a soft exhale. 

“I wonder at your impact upon this board… And upon my children. There can be no one but you who relieves Kurasame in this iteration.”

Again, that name assaults her senses, sharper this time, piercing the haze and spreading between her ribs, cold and creeping like ice through the webwork of her veins. As though she’d run for miles and miles, her lungs ache, devoid of air, and her lips tremble delicately, a choking, wheezing gasp falling from them. She coughs, her throat constricting, and there’s no air to be had in all the world. Tears prick at her eyes for no reason at all, and a gaping wound opens inside her chest. 

Arecia observes her with simmering interest, grasping her chin between thumb and forefinger, not allowing her to look down to where she must be bleeding. “You aren’t injured,” she says, and every words rings with truth, every truth in every word, yet still the pain grows. “You remember him? You must have been terribly close.  _ Kurasame _ .”

Her wound rips open wider, and tears slide down her cheeks, a broken sob escaping. “He - He… Who…?”

Arecia cups Emina’s cheek, tears sinking into the fine fabric of her gloves. Emina craves to fist her hands in those billowing scarves, to cling to only stable thing in this world, to hold fast until she is whole again, until this piece someone has carved from her returns, but her limbs are leaden, pinned at her side. 

“Remembrance is a painful thing.” Arecia comments, thumb swiping at the tears collected at the corner of Emina’s eye. “What would you give to forget? In exchange for an end to this torment, would you mentor my children?”

“Please… No, please… It hurts - ” Her voice cracks, and the phantom memory of blue hair always swept to one side pulls a true cry from her throat. She’s never hurt like this before. She’s never longed so terribly. “Stop it, please… He’s… Kurasame is…”

“I know, dear, I know. Of all the people to have ever lived,  _ you _ are only the second to have felt loss.” Warm hands trace up her cheeks, fingers resting over her temples. Arecia is everywhere - she is all there is in the world, and Emina trembles beneath her touch, openly weeping. “But even you cannot fathom the loss I have experienced… I have suffered for a thousand millennia, and if I cannot find the answer I seek, I will suffer countless more.

“But you, Emina Hanaharu… You may hold a fragment of the answer which will free me from this cycle…”

Emina’s knees buckle, but some force holds her upright, strangling her with every breath that she’s forced to look into Arecia’s eyes, every breath she’s forced to remember. Arecia breathes smoke into the air between them, and flashes of memories flood her head until her skull threatens to split. He was a classmate, he was a Champion, he was in love, he was her  _ friend  _ -

“By freeing me, you will free us all and beckon salvation for worlds you have never imagined.”

Drowning in a lifetime of memories, a lifetime of pictures and words and feelings, Emina shudders, clutching at her own rent chest, the empty cavity of her ribcage wanting, yearning, something vital scooped out. Without it, she’ll die, but Arecia is dispassionate, unyielding steel, offering nothing but a leash. 

Uncaring fingers dig into her temples, Arecia’s breath hot upon her face. “Will you accept my gift of forgetting, Emina? Will you safeguard my children?”

The sensation of his arm in hers hits her like a blow, and she cries out, “ _ Yes! _ ”

Everything stops. Arecia is nowhere, the world black and vacuous, her absence leaving Emina gasping and staggering, her mind blank, her lungs burning. The edge of the seat at her calf upends her, and she crashes into the cushions like dead weight, blinking away the constellations which dance behind her eyes. 

When Emina raises her fingers to her eyes, they come away wet. 

“I’ll not forget your vow. Do you know where my children are taught?”

Arecia’s voice no longer rings, encompassing her every sense, but Emina still jerks up, her head swimming with vertigo. Hovering over the armchair, Arecia blows a stream of smoke into the air, and acutely, the sensation of being cornered, being caught in the sight of a predator guts her with fear, her heart hammering in her chest. She was a fool to think Arecia her savior. She was a fool to stay here with her, thinking her less dangerous than her brood .

The moments before blur and fade with each passing second even as she clutches at her head, trying to keep it all in. Their words jumble and twist in her mind until they’re no more than white noise, but the sense of danger never abates, the memory of pain potent enough even without knowing its source to chase ideas of rebellion from her very marrow. 

Swallowing, Emina nods, her voice deserting her. 

Arecia’s keen gaze lingers a moment longer before she turns, mild as a summer’s breeze, all the intent stolen from her very essence.

“Then we have nothing more to discuss,” she says, voice bleeding disinterest. “Should you choose to stay, there is a bed in the chamber to your right.”

_ Escape _ , her mind screams, remembering Seven’s promise from before.

Emina’s limbs flail more than move, and she scrambles to the doors, crashing into them before she can force the handles into compliance. The tower is cold outside of the office, the world wide and dangerous, but Emina still darts through the vestibule to the nearest exit. 

Out here, she is weak, alone, but no executioner’s knife could cut deeper than the fear instilled in her marrow, wracking every inch of her. 

The door to the staircase slams shut behind her, but even as she tears down the flights of stairs, she knows there is no escape, not from someone like Arecia, not from the vow she wrung from Emina’s reluctant throat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chaotic neutral god mom has no chill??? jesus christ arecia, STOP......
> 
> i wonder what she said to caetuna :3c


End file.
